


Legacy of the Precursors (Revised)

by Drake_The_Traveller



Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms, Star Fox Series
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blood and Gore, Drama, F/M, Military, Science Fiction, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 20:40:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21464215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drake_The_Traveller/pseuds/Drake_The_Traveller
Summary: A legacy is what man leaves behind, the culmination of past deeds laid down at his feet for those who come after. Noble Six walks in the footsteps of his predecessors, peerless warriors and tacticians. As a spartan, war is his birthright. As a man he has nothing to call his own, no legacy to his name. But after Reach's fall, he discovers just what inheritance he will leave behind.
Relationships: Krystal (Star Fox)/Noble Six | SPARTAN-B312
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	1. Not an End

_So… this is it._

Great plumes of virulent, blackened smoke darkened the sky. The source of this flourishing biome of poisoned fog lay in the rampant fires that consumed great swaths of forestland in the distance, kilometers away from the barren plateau of the Aszod shipbreaking yard. Even further into the distance, past an endless wasteland of perpetual devastation, lay the blazing wreckage of a once great city, its towers long since reduced to molten cinders, the bones of its residents smoldering slag in the wake of callous devastation.

Reach, the last, greatest, bastion of mankind, had been sundered by the overwhelming might of alien hatred and religious fervor.

Noble Six, seated within the magnetic accelerator cannon that had saved not just a halcyon cruiser, but the hope for a human future, at least as he understood it, gazed up into a sky no longer made sovereign by mankind. Their claim had been usurped, and they were left with less than nothing, just the shattered hulks of broken starships and the fractured skeleton of a once indomitable orbital defense grid

His stargazing, an idle activity led on by the finality of his existence, had been obstructed as his visor polarized, his indolent focus drawn now by the detonation of something in low atmosphere. The blinding flash, mitigated by his VISR, allowed him to peer into the active corona of a dying starship. He then watched, in numb apathy, as the last UNSC ship, the mighty _Trafalgar_, was split from stem to stern by a lance of projected energy jutting from the prow of a colossal Covenant warship. The supercarrier, once the pride of the Epsilon Eridani fleet, and the heart of Reach’s defense, was torn apart by a cascade of rapid detonations originating from deep within its hull, likely the cook-off of stored munitions, Noble Six theorized as he watched the ship begin its slow, but inevitable orbital decline.

The spartan calculated the seconds, an offhand project fueled by his dispiritedness, his count reaching twenty-three before the shockwave hit. He felt the force, even from the surface, as the wave of sound crashed into him, pushing him into the cushioned upholstery of the operating chair. The unclasped buckles of his seat fluttered in the stirred winds and upturned grit of the desert sands. A whirlwind of debris fell upon the plateau in a heavy blanket thick enough to darken the light from the local star, his shields erupting into a flaring collage of golden colors under the barrage of loose stones and dirt. He endured the assault in silence, letting the environmental fury wash over him as his thoughts wandered, aimless and without bearing. He was going to die here.

There was no use in entertaining any other possibility, and he had no desire to ignore the obvious inevitability of his situation. He had no means to make it off planet, and even if he did he’d be killed before he could even escape the atmosphere. The surface was swarming with legions of Covenant infantry, and entire continents had already been cleansed by the fleet in orbit. He doubted it would be long before their plasma projectors were turned towards this place. For the first time in his career, Noble Six was entirely out of options. Nothing he could do would get him out of this one alive. For once his brute strength and martial cunning would not afford him the means of survival.

A small, infinitesimal part of the spartan, wondered that even if he had the opportunity, would he take it? Survival had never really been a primary concern for him. As far as he was concerned, he had no greater expectations than what was right here, in this very moment as he looked out upon a burning world once more revealed as the dust settled. If this was to be his final hours, his last moments as a human being, then so be it. This was always the way it was going to be, and he was honestly surprised that it had taken this long. His only concern was on how many of these alien monsters he could take out with him before he punched out. After all, even if this was to be his end, he would not go quietly.

This time, there was nothing left to hold him back.

Something closely akin to a sigh slipped past his lips as he slowly rose from the operator’s chair of the cannon, once a device of menial labor, used to eject the unsalvageable refuse of decommissioned ships from Reach’s surface, had been appropriated for noble purpose before its end, responsible for the destruction of not only eight phantom dropships, but two Covenant corvettes.

He brushed a gauntlet across the metallic finish of the command console, a terse nod of appreciation passing through him as he jumped down to the gantry below. His boots made contact with the metal walkway with a deep _clang _that reverberated through the floor as he spent a moment to adjust himself, taking stock of the inventory that he’d need for his final push.

Out in the distance he could see the sloping profiles of several ships as they approached Aszod, no doubt drawn by the recent battle that had taken place. He counted four phantoms, and after a quick calculation, factored the chances of success against a platoon’s worth of Covenant infantry.

The number 14 stared mockingly at him from his HUD’s ammunition counter, and he looked down to the MA37 rifle in his hands, the weapon nearly as battered and scarred as the armor of its wielder. A glance further down revealed the barren magnetic holster where his sidearm should be, and the faintest trace of a frown crossed his face. The fight to secure the MAC emplacement has been fierce and brutal, leaving him in his current predicament with little means of maintaining a ranged offensive.

_Just have to make it count. _He decided as he ejected the magazine, examined the brass cartridges within, and slapped it back into place.

Musing on his plan of attack, the spartan was momentarily surprised when a friendly IFF pinged his nav system. A waypoint appeared in front of his vision, the blue arrow situated somewhere down a flight of steps to his left. Almost entirely confident in the fact he was the last human left alive on this planet, but seeing no reason to decline solving this peculiarity, Noble Six decided to humor himself and followed the marker, taking the stairs down to the lowest level of the construction gantry. Underneath the crenelated boardwalk of iron girders below the MAC cannon, he passed a string of broken corpses, the shredded forms of the Covenant’s elite infantry intermixed with the heaps of dead that were little more than chaff to the alien empire’s unrelenting military machine.

Kicking the bullet riddled corpse of a grunt off the walkway during his idle inspection, he paused, surprised at the revealed source of the IFF marker.

The spartan slowly moved to the figure hunched against the wall, coming to a soft kneeling position beside the armored form arched against the rock face pressed against the gantry. Noble four, despite all expectations, was not dead. Having written him off the moment the elite’s plasma sword punched through his breastplate, Six was astonished to see that Emile was still alive… for the most part.

“Glad…” The other spartan-III coughed violently, a shudder wracking his frame as he struggled to speak. “Glad to see you made it to the party.” His inflection was wet and ridden with airless gasps, bereft of the usual roughened wit so synonymous with his name. Six did not need to see the man’s face to know the truth. The center of his breastplate had caved in, the rim of torn metal still a dull cherry red from the confined plasma that had cleaved effortlessly through the heavy titanium armor. Blood pooled around his legs, the crimson fluid taking a slight bluish hue from the amalgamated hydrostatic gel that oozed from the gashes in his suit.

Noble Four was a man not long for this world, and no manner of battlefield first aid could change that. It was a miracle that he had survived this long, and still been able to fight; judging from the bodies around him that Six knew had not been there before he manned the surface MAC. If anything, it spoke of the true tenacity of the man before him.

The spartan nodded to his squadmate, the can of biofoam in his hand slowly returning into one of the kevlar pouches sewn in his supply vest. _“Wouldn’t have missed it.”_ He chuckled softly as he set himself down next to Noble Four, his armored bulk hitting the ground heavily. The man let loose a substantial sigh as he turned his gaze out into the ashen sky of the doomed world they had all fought so hard to defend. He would not have to wait much longer, and the spartan decided there was little reason to concern himself with the inevitable.

The inescapability of his demise was, in a way, somewhat of a liberating sensation. There was no reason to dwell on a future he would not be part of, no point on thrashing against the certainty of the path ahead of him. And that allowed Six to, for the first time in his career, practice the freedom of acceptance, to embrace fate on his own terms.

He only found it unfortunate that it would be a singular experience. His death would be the first, and last, thing he could call his own.

“One hell of a show, ain’t it?” Noble Four asked quietly, the tenuous strength in his voice fading as he also partook in observance of Reach’s broken skyline, populous as it was by the invading craft of a merciless alien empire. The Covenant armada clouded above the fallen world, uncountable in number, a matchless horde immune to any human opposition. They had won this day, struck a devastating, perhaps irrecoverable blow against the forces of mankind, but not without sacrifice. The Covenant had bled heavily for their victory, deeper than any battle previous. The wreckage of their warships littered orbit in the hundreds, and their armies had been blunted by the tenacity of human perseverance.

The fall of Reach would not go forgotten, not by mankind, nor her enemies.

Dwelling upon such musings, Noble Six nodded silently in agreement.

It was indeed one hell of a show.

“Do you……..”

A long pause of silence stretched between them, and Six’s expression hardened, softening only when Emiel’s voice came back, cold and tired.

“Do you think…. do you think they’ll remember us?”

The spartan thought deeply upon Emile’s words, upon the unrecognized nature of their innumerable heroics, and the hopelessness of their cause, even as the IFF flickered into nonexistence, and the steps above him thundered with the marching force of a ravening horde of spiteful aliens, vying for human blood.

So it was, that Spartan B312 came upon his answer as the first elite charged down the stairs, its head snapping back as a flurry of bullets scythed through its shields and blew out the back of its skull. As the alien leading the advance tumbled down the steps, the warrior behind it, bedecked in bright crimson armor, let loose an infuriated roar as it sprayed the gantry with a fusillade of blue energy.

The empty rifle that was launched across the expanse and cracked against its skull, hit with enough force to shatter its shield. And before it could grunt in surprised exclamation, an armored fist punched through its throat. Shattered teeth clattered onto the spartan’s bulky vambrace as he pushed up the stairs, dragging the alien at his forefront, the hulking saurian choking on its own blood in the process. Several plasma bolts struck the back of the elite before it made contact with the next alien in line, who crumbled as a knife was buried to the hilt in its forehead.

Stringing himself seamlessly into his next action, the spartan rolled over the spent bodies of his adversaries, retrieving the discarded weapons of the fallen as he spun across the floor, his spinal plate skidding off the ground as he unloaded the dual plasma rifles, the enemy retaliation that tracked after him leaving molten craters in the corrugated walkway. The preceding exchange of weapons fire as he vaulted into the fray, dropped his shields by several percent, but gave him the push he needed to close with his enemy. Here, in the blood-soaked brutality of close quarters, was an environment in which B312 excelled.

Burning sapphire bolts splashed against his towering physique as he weathered the alien barrage. The pair of stolen sangheili weaponry clutched tight in his gauntlets, thundered in return with twice the ferocity.

The fury of both, aimed against a singular target, was more than enough to overload his opponent’s shield. The sangheili officer, its armor once a pristine silvered hue, withered under the fusillade, rivulets of molten metal running down its form as it was thrown upon its back by the violence of his guns.

The blue bar above the spartan’s HUD, rapidly in decline since the onset of the engagement, finally emptied beneath the wealth of directed energy arrayed against him. A loud snap struck his hearing, as his shields flared mightily before vanishing in a cloud of dispersed particles. His helmet ringing with alarms, Noble Six threw himself forwards, into the rushing figure of a charging elite in dark blue armor.

The two combatants clashed with the deep reverberation of metal striking metal, and the sangheili barked a surprised exclamation as half a ton of spartan crashed into its chest. The human supersoldier ended its surprise abruptly, ramming his combat knife into its upper palate and out the top of its skull. In the same motion, with his free hand, the spartan rifled with the waist belt of its combat harness. The spartan’s gesticulation fluid and coordinated; he curled an arm across its torso and dropped once more to the floor. Flipping the corpse over his chest, and utilizing the inertia he had gathered, the supersoldier hurled it a full eight meters across the platform that had devolved into an open warzone.

The dead alien flopped loudly against the gantry, the clatter of armored plates drawing the attention of the squad of Covenant infantry that had been, until that moment, charging down the steps to enter the battle, a ragtag mix of species that usually formed the expendable vanguard for Covenant armies.

The creature at the forefront, an increasingly startled kig-yar, glanced down to the body at the bottom of the steps, although its eyes were more so drawn to the cluster of glowing orbs attached to its belt.

Before it could react, the jackal, and everything in a five meter radius around it, was consumed in a swirling conflagration of molten plasma. Searing light emanated from the heart of the discharge, bearing an intensity rivaling the initial flash of a nuclear detonation.

The spartan’s visor polarized, and he reaffirmed his grasp upon the combat knife as he bounded into action under the cover of the fallout. He could feel the faint heat left in the wake of the makeshift bomb, could smell the odor of sweat and blood lingering within the confines of his helmet, sensations that stirred old, unpleasant memories inside the spartan. And in that moment he recalled so many things that he struggled endlessly to contain under his awareness, what he had lost, and what had been taken. The ensuing attempt to banish the tide of thought and remain focused was futile, and a familiar, dark rage overcame him.

The Covenant soldiers blindsided by the explosion attempted to recover their wits amidst their disorientation, only to find that death had come to reap its vengeance. Noble Six was as a wraith amongst them, gliding across the platform with augmented lethality and grace, his combat knife flashing violently as it glinted in the sunlight, delivering the freedom of release upon the creatures that had destroyed everything he had ever loved, empowered by the singular drive to kill. Fountains of arterial spray and inhuman cries of pain were ousted upon the open air as cold steel parted both flesh and armor with equal ease.

The satisfaction that seized its hold over him as he butchered the foes of mankind was… euphoric.

All the fragments of personality left in the wake of his training, all his memories, all his fears and anger, all the dreams and youthful aspirations that had died the day his planet did, everything that made him what he had become, was honed for this express purpose. The entirety of his being existed for the sole purpose of inflicting grievance upon the enemies of man. This was his retribution, and once more he raged at the austerity of his providence.

He gave no consideration to any weapon other than the blade, no care for higher cognition or tactical reasoning. A gun could not offer to him the same gratification as he carved his knife deep into the toughened hide of a squealing unggoy. The utterance of primal agony that tore through the rawness of its esophagus as his weapon bit deep… that… was something he could only produce with the intimacy of a blade. Yet, even as he took pleasure in its suffering, he was not entirely without clemency. His gauntlet enfolded over its breathing apparatus, moments before he ripped the mask from its face, the breathing tubes spewing the sour stench of methane into open air. He therein left the creature to die, whether from asphyxiation or the gaping wound in its torso, he cared little, only that its end was brought upon in ignoble sufferance.

For him, that was an unusual act of kindness.

His next target was a kig-yar, the alien hiding behind its energy phalanx, raptorial eyes wild and panicked, hunting, searching for some means to escape the slaughter. None was provided as the spartan’s greave lanced forward, shattering its defense, as well as its forearm. He dashed in close, the edge of his knife glancing off its beak before plunging deep into the sickly yellow gleam of its left eye. Its death was lenient in that it was short, if not brutal, as the avian creature shuddered before becoming limp against his torso.

The spartan flung its spent form from his body in disgust, his anger burning hot and potent inside him. More voices entered the fray, another contingent of alien warriors honing in upon the sounds of combat. This group was smaller, a handful of elites and their fodder, ready to claim his life.

He would not allow this.

A flaring blue sphere sailed towards him, and the spartan, leaped forward, caught the grenade with the barrel of a plasma rifle, and flung the explosive back at its owner like a metal Frisbee. The sight was darkly comical, the elite grunting in pained confusion as both the grenade and the rifle collided with, and stuck to the center of its forehead. The alien, mercifully, did not have to endure the indignity long, before it erupted into a superheated fireball.

The spartan’s shields, now fully recovered, flared as he charged through the detonation, his shoulderplate slamming into the torso of his next opponent, taking them both to the floor, a tactic that almost always proved to be effective. The walkway shuddered under the weight of the two combatants, and Six’s helmet whipped backwards as a fist crashed into his visor.

Not to be outdone, he returned the sentiment with twice as much enthusiasm, hitting the creature so hard its helmet caved inwards and its brains were plastered outside of its skull, liquefied grey matter seeping from the ruptured plates of its armor. 

A high pitched yip filtered through his exterior radio, and the spartan shifted his ire to the stubby creature that stood half a dozen meters away. The grunt squealed as his helmet turned to it, and the charging bolt of plasma contained by the pistol in its stumpy, clawed grip, launched from the barrel and impacted against the crook of his arm. The spartan grunted in discomfort as his shields flared and popped, the residual irradiated heat searing his skin through his powered exoskeleton.

The little alien quivered in its skin as the lumbering form of the spartan supersoldier rose from the corpse of its squad leader, killed like the rest of its sangheili masters. Its paralysis did not linger however, and it turned to flee after issuing a short bark of terror. But its flight did not last long, as it turned a corner and bowled into the huddled cluster of its clueless brothers.

The spartan barely gave them a thought as he hosed them down, clutching the trigger of another captured plasma rifle until its cooling vents flared. The weapon whined and hissed, ejecting the superheated exhaust in a broiling cloud of pale blue vapor.

Just as quickly as it started, the sounds of battle faded into the wind, and the spartan stood silent sentinel over his work, more tallies to strike on his combat record, though he would not live to do so. He was, in that moment, struck by a sense of potent futility. What was a few dozen, in the face of the incalculable infinitude of the Covenant’s zealous legions? He could kill every alien on this dying planet and still only scratch the surface of his foe’s number. 

Noble Six entertained the notion of defeat, only for a brief interlude, before reality asserted itself, before the measure of his training and dogged tenacity reassumed control.

The numbers of his enemy did not matter. The power and agency of his foe was inconsequential, their aims and desires, irrelevant. All that mattered, all that he cared to dwell upon, was the fierceness of his resolve and the swift distribution of his wrath.

He would make the Covenant bleed, for however much blood he could spill from the corpses of their warriors, whatever destruction he could wreak upon their armies and fleets. He would avenge the fallen, and secure in interest, the cost of his own demise. He would show them, as had all his brothers and sisters, the price they would have to pay to have him.

And he would ensure they paid in full.

A voice shouted across the gore strewn catwalk, surprising him in the fact that it was voiced in fluent English.

“Demon! Look upon me!”

The warrior turned, his gaze traversing the culmination of his work, the manifested reward of his artistry. There was little in the way of blood, the fluid having slipped between the corrugated iron bars of the platform, but the bodies, the lingering accolades of his ability, remained for his appreciative purview. Butchered and mutilated beyond recognition, even by their peers, it was a soothing balm upon the tormented memories these creatures had given him. Not enough. Never enough. But at least in this moment, deemed… adequate. There was much a spartan could do with an iron will and a short length of sharpened steel.

His moment of self-gratification spent, the spartan looked upon the owner of the voice that addressed him, and first noticed the eyes, two gateways into the soul of a creature whose hatred burned nearly as passionately as his own. It was of course an elite, no other Covenant foot soldier ever seemed to match the sangheili ethos for religious fanaticism. Deep maroon armor, patterned with intricate forerunner glyphs that bloomed with shinning radiance, a zealot in appearance, and entirely unsurprising to see at the end. The usual honor and untamed bloodlust of their race was often tempered by age and familiarity, in time tactics changed, their machinations shrouded in obscure convolution. Experience made them cunning, and all the more dangerous for it.

The spartan watched its approach, as the alien paced slowly down the only staircase not reduced to molten slag in the fighting, its steps weighted heavily with stately bearing and martial pride. It held a gleaming sword in one hand, the blade illuminant in regal gold, a color he had not yet seen even among the most influential of sangheili warriors.

Perhaps this one was more than a zealous tool.

Perhaps this was something… new.

The hulking saurian’s eyes studied the conclusion of the spartan’s destruction, its mandibled expression bereft of tangible emotion, at least as a human might understand. But eyes were universally decipherable. Within there was pity, sadness… and righteous indignation. The elite stopped its advance to crouch beside one of the many corpses of its brethren, brushing a four digited hand across the scorched plating of its helmet. Mandibles guttered as it intoned a quiet benediction, before rising slowly from its haunches to regard the human supersoldier across the carnage. 

The fullness of its attention, and the power in its restrained emotion, was leveraged against the spartan. “You…” It whispered hoarsely, its unarmed hand twitching with impotence as it witnessed cruelty that it had never seen before, not from the most sadistic warriors of its enemy. “You are no demon. You are profane… an abomination.”

The spartan, with all the eloquence he could care to muster, wiped his blade clean with a cloth he had taken from a fallen sangheili warrior, the lingering dredge of an old memory resurfacing in that moment, a gift from a pious father he had never had the chance to know. _“He hath utterly destroyed them, he hath delivered them to the slaughter. Their slain also shall be cast out, and their stink shall come up out of their carcasses, and the mountains shall be melted with their blood.”_

The zealot did not at first speak after the proclamation, the humming energies of its sword the only noise to break the overbearing silence as it saw fit to linger.

Noble Six found this to be an unusual curiosity from his customary dealings with any member of the sangheili race. Such control was uncommon to associate with their brood. Their species thrived on conflict, almost more than the spartans who had been created for that sole purpose. In so he had not expected this. What he had expected, was for the alien to engage immediately upon the discovery of its peers.

This new act of ponderous reserve, was somewhat of a novelty in his eyes.

The sangheili would yet again surprise him.

“So it is as written… the Book of Isaiah, chapter 34, verse 3.” It muttered thoughtfully to itself, the glimmer of rage in its eyes subdued as it mused slowly. “How… appropriate.” The zealot looked back to the spartan, its mandibles twitching in what was perhaps amusement. “Are you surprised, abomination? Do not be. I have studied your people well, your most prominent religions, your greatest scholars and master strategists.”

The elite made a strange noise, a sound that was somewhere between a chuckle and a cough. “You should know this. It is as your Sun Tzu proclaimed centuries ago. If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.”

“And I… I know my enemies very well.”

The spartan studied his foe circumspectly as the large alien sighed weightily, removing its crested headdress to cast it upon the corpse strewn gantry, the heaviness of the armor piece issuing a resounding crash as it struck the catwalk. Thus revealed, was the myriad of ancient scars set deep in its flesh. Six could see the sangheili’s age in its darkened hide, and the paleness of its healed wounds spoke of battles fought long ago. Yet its eyes still shone with vitality, and its movements were lithe and practiced, not the ricketiness of feeble geriatrics. This was a foe very much still in its prime.

“Come then…” It spoke softly, but no less bearing the aura of command, as it shifted its blade into a guarded position. “Let us put an end to this.”

The spartan nodded carefully, offering the sangheili a respect rarely given. Perhaps this elite would be the one to claim what so many others had died attempting to take. And there was but one way to find out.

Noble Six reversed his hold on the bloodied hilt of his combat knife, his stance widening to evenly distribute his balance for the impending conflict. His lips pulled back as he barred his teeth, and the spartan grunted a soundless snarl as he leaped forwards.

He was joined not soon after by the zealot, who roared an oath in its own language as he thrust his blade at the human before him.

It was his reflexes that saved him from meeting an end reflective of Noble Four. As the spartan entered melee range, he, in a spiral of back breaking gymnastics, twisted to the side. The energized tines of the plasma blade brushed against his shields, and that alone was enough to shatter them completely.

Alarms screaming in his ears, Noble Six bent low as the sword arced upwards, a seamless transition of movement that showed him a glimpse of his adversary’s boundless swordsmanship. And in that moment the spartan knew he was outclassed.

His reasoning was simple. As much as he thrived in close quarters, he was not a swordsman. He had training in the art, just as he had been taught a hundred different disciplines across a hundred fields by his ONI masters, and with his augmentations he was perhaps one of the best of any human to ever wield a sword. But it was obvious, even in the next moment where he threw himself in close to avoid the sweeping slice of a horizontal slash, delivering a righteous uppercut that staggered the hulking beast, that this sangheili’s skill surpassed anything he had ever come to face before.

Noble Six had skill.

This zealot field marshal, had mastery.

He was fighting a battle he could not win, at least not like this. The sangheili warrior recovered from its stagger in seconds, blade already soaring towards its foe with the intent to cleave his head from his shoulders, but the spartan was if anything, quicker than this saurian blade master.

His gauntlet shot forward like a piston, his fingers wrapping around the wrist of the elite’s sword arm, and halting the impending swing before it could cut into his shoulder. In turn, he thrust his knife towards the unarmored flesh of its throat, and issued a terse grunt of frustration as the gleaming sharpness of his weapon did not find its target. His shields sparked and his armor creaked under the merciless grasp of his adversary.

The alien growled and reared back, and the spartan felt his center of gravity begin to shift. Noble Six leaned away, reasserting his balance, moments before he pushed forwards, the flat visor plate of his helmet smashing into the sangheili’s face. Under the force of the impact, his shields shimmered and died, but the satisfying crunch of bone was reward enough, and the spartan was quick to press the momentary advantage.

The human supersoldier drew even closer, out of effective reach from his opponent’s blade, and sprang his knee up, the point of his greave slamming into its torso armor. The artfully decorated plates crumped under several hundred pounds of pressure, and an airless huff erupted from the zealot’s throat, a squirt of purplish blood splattering across his vision.

Intending to assert his position further, the spartan prepared to strike again to force his enemy to release its hold, but recoiled at the searing pain in his arm. His momentum stunted, Six’s range advantage was lost as the elite planted a cloven hoof against his breastplate and forced him back with a surprising feat of strength.

The spartan struck the ground hard, but continued rolling, only to just miss being impaled by the energy dagger protruding from the field marshal’s gauntlet. Aware that he was in very real danger of defeat, the last member of Noble threw out his free hand, his fingers brushing across something hard and solid, his grip tightened, and the spartan came out of his roll, plasma rifle spewing blue bolts at his enemy.

The sangheili zealot raised his blade, protecting its unarmored head as it jumped to the side. In a moment, the alien unclasped the weapon at its hip, and returned the fusillade in kind.

The spartan’s shields, constantly under assault and unable to recover more than a few percent, were swiftly overwhelmed by the plasma repeater. Several shots connected with his chest and left arm. The heat of the liquid energy boiled at his surface plating, a tangible sensation that caused the spartan to grit his teeth as he reached down and dragged the mauled corpse of a kig-yar from the ground to intercept the barrage. Dull impacts thumped repeatedly into the flesh buffer, and the spartan worked with swift assurance, stripping its point defense gauntlet and hastily attaching the Covenant device to his forearm.

Flinging the corpse at the zealot, he bought himself enough time to activate the energy barrier while the elite shuffled to the side. Springing to life, the circular aegis glimmered a robust orange as it absorbed the storm of shots spewing from his enemy’s weapon. However the coverage of the shield was not enough to fully protect him, and the spartan felt a number of hits to his exposed extremities. Yet it was certainly better than the alternative, and the spartan was able to reduce the incoming damage quite effectively as he hurried to close range once more.

Extending his shield arm out, he slammed the energized particle barrier into the field marshal, knocking the plasma repeater out of its grip, and conversely overloading his stolen gauntlet. The spartan retracted his arm, only enough so that he could shoot it forward, smashing his fist into the side of the elite’s skull. The strike, focused with all his might, broke its shields and sent the hulking alien to the ground in a crumpled heap. Noble Six immediately fell upon his adversary, unwilling to give it any more chance to recover, and thrust his blade against its breastplate. Yet its armor, a perk afforded by esteemed position and elevated status, deflected the titanium carbide blade. The combat knife snapped, and the jagged length protruding from the hilt skimmed across its armor until the broken weapon lodged into the crease between the sangheili’s neck and shoulderplate.

The giant alien shuddered under him, and sputtered a garbled mess of syllables through the blood rushing into its throat, sword raising halfheartedly. Nevertheless, even restrained and near death, the alien’s strength was not insubstantial, and the sizzling tines of its weapon etched a superficial furrow in the side of the spartan’s helmet.

Such an action was ignored as Noble Six focused upon the alien under him, watching as its struggles slowly ceased, and ensuring that in its final moments, it would fully understand the totality of its defeat.

Slowly, the zealot’s struggle waned, and its arm fell limp onto the gantry.

Six leaned off the fallen alien, his armor smoldering and awash in the multicolored fluids of his enemies. In that moment the sky once more called him away from the inhuman bloodbath around him, the orange haze of sunset falling upon the desolate wasteland of Aszod, ending the last day Reach would see under the supervision of mankind. And he knew.

There was nothing left here for him but death. 

The spartan departed, leaving behind the corpse of the field marshal and the mutilated remains of the hunter killer teams that had been sent to claim his life. The reprieve he had secured for himself would be brief. Once the fate of this detachment would be learned, more would come, and in far greater numbers.

He would not prevail a second time.

So it was he decided to end his stay in Aszod. Noble Six did not feel it a fitting location for what would be his end. His part in the predominant order of the war may have ended, but he still calculated and strategized, making preparations for his last effort.

The spartan scoured the length and breadth of the shipbreaking yard, gathering what supplies and materials he could, repossessing scattered UNSC and Covenant weapons from the dead, anything and everything that might prove useful. Eventually, under great reluctance, he revisited Noble Four’s final repose. And after uttering a solemn, if terse, eulogy, appropriated the fallen warrior’s equipment. He worked studiously, and with suitable reverence, as he repurposed what Mjolnir parts could be salvaged, the man’s shotgun, and… with greater averseness, Four’s kukri. 

The idea of stealing from the dead was perhaps in ill-taste, but if anyone could understand the need for disregarding taboo’s to gain advantage, it was a spartan. Ultimately, he left Four to his eternal rest and after securing his excess baggage in a carryall rucksack strapped to his back, input a destination in his navigational system. He did not know what awaited him.

But he hoped Lake Farkas would have the answer.

XX-XX-XX

Ju’das Rasumai returned to the conscious world, consumed by pain. While not an unfamiliar sensation, this was the first time he had felt it in such potency since he had been a youngling training with Uncle Kar’tos in the garden courtyards of their keep. The soreness he felt was much alike the condition Kar’tos had often left him in after a day on the sparring field.

A quiet growl emerged from deep in his chest as gathered his strength and sat up from his supine repose. The effort took a surprising amount of determination on his part, and the sangheili’s growl deepened as he brushed a four fingered hand across the cool textile weave wrapping around his throat, the fabric was a soothing, if impotent balm for the pain, and a crested brow raised curiously when he recognized the synth-flesh healing patch.

His next glance, aimed at the chamber he had awoken in, conjured forth familiarity, though he could not remember when he had returned to his quarters aboard the _Journey’s End_. Another attentive inspection, of the patch at his throat, and the ensuing spike of pain, served as a trigger to spark his memory, and the clouded miasma confusing his thoughts was shattered by the clarity of his last waking moments.

The demon….

No, Ju’das dismissed the title as he recalled the sight he had come across as he arrived to do battle with one of the legendary warriors of their foe. What had occurred there had transcended beyond the boundaries of war. What Ju’das had seen was not honorable, but sacrilegious. This human was unalike the other demons he had dueled on their fallen fortress world. He had fought and bested many of their kind, in many colors and permutations of armor, and the varied skill that followed. This one had been different.

This creature was an abomination.

His grasp tightened on the wrapping around his throat, and his mandibles flexed in silent indignation as his recollection was sullied by the bitter sting of defeat. Ju’das had never encountered such a demon before, not one as fast, or as resourceful as his most recent adversary. And he would admit, to some small amount, that he had been impressed by its ruthless cunning. Turning the very bodies of the dead into a weapon, while an unorthodox and detestable tactic beyond the consideration of most sangheili warriors, was not to be disregarded.

After all, he could no deny its effectiveness.

He had not lived this long by deafening himself to other methodologies that some of his honorbound brothers might ignore. Ju’das had learned at a young age that an opponent would not always meet you on an equal field, but this had been the first time he had felt that so keenly.

Ju’das Rasumai, snorting disdainfully, tore the patch from his body and forced through his lethargy to get away from the prison of his sleep pod. He would not endure the indignity of the infirm for a moment longer. His pride carried him through the pain as he made his way to the farthermost wall. Clutching at his throat and waiving a hand across the haptic interface, the bulkhead hissed and shifted as plates retracted to reveal the storage unit within.

The sangheili warrior worked quickly and with diligence, removing his charred, battered and blood-soaked combat harness, exchanging the damaged armor for a simple robe of dark blue. The formless mantle fit easily around his bulk, and did much to conceal the true nature of his injuries, and he hoped it might assuage the shame of his condition.

Ju’das wondered, as the storage unit closed and he studied the sparse decorations ornamenting his private quarters, if it would have been better to not wake up at all. Doubtlessly his standing amongst his brothers had suffered severely. To think, a warrior of his lineage, to be bested so blatantly, it was a wonder they had bothered to take him back and heal his wounds.

His surprise was significant, and he did indeed wonder at his curious benefaction, though the answer was apparent. His salvation had come at the behest of the hierarchs. Truly they could see beyond the wiles of their protectors. The prophets did not care for honor in the way of the sangheili. Warriors of his rank were valued resources, and the San’Shyuum would not see such tools be wasted for such inconceivable notions. The realization that he still had a part to play on the path did much to relieve his doubt, and Ju’das felt the flicker of confidence return to a full blaze inside him.

He would find the abomination, and this time he would not fail.

The sangheili was quick to visit the lavatory and fight to return some of his proud bearing to himself. But the task was not an easy one. His loss at the hands of the demon had turned his hide sallow, and the further paleness made his old scars far more prominent. He had lost not an insignificant portion of his lifeblood, and Ju’das struggled to reconcile with his honor.

But he was swift to banish such futile wonderings. To dwell would not bring his pride back. Only the death of the one that had tarnished his reputation would return his honor back to him. And for that, he would need a sanction of pursuit, and to receive that he would need an audience with the hierarchs.

Ju’das returned to his pod, and made to retrieve his sword before departing his chambers. He realized then in that moment that he had lost far more than he had at first realized. His ancestral blade was not slotted into its proper aperture. A jolt of disbelief struck him fiercely as he gazed at the emptiness before him. The dawning understanding of the theft burned more acutely than any of his previous despairs. The blade of Rasum, a relic of his keep that had persisted for a thousand years in service to the right hand of the kaidon, a symbol of the honorable lineage of his ancestors, had been taken from him.

The shame he felt was crushing. Ju’das fought the overpowering need to succumb to the pressure and sink to his knees. He had not ascended to his position, overcoming countless trials and bloodshed, to wallow in despair. He was better than that, his pedigree was better than that.

The solution to this conundrum was readily apparent in his eyes.

Ju’das would simply have to take it back.


	2. A Beginning

The trek was a grueling slog, almost worse than he had had originally anticipated and the overall length of the journey had been drawn-out in order to evade the bulk of the Covenant occupation. Several days were spent traversing hostile terrain and evading even more hostile patrols. Sometimes he was able to pass through unnoticed… others reduced his ever dwindling source of ammunition. Nevertheless, eventually, and near at the limit of his supplies, he arrived at his destination.

From the vantage point afforded to him by a sheer rock face overlooking the remains of the base, the enemy contingent guarding the blasted skeleton of the once clandestine SPLRR compound, did not appear all that intimidating. Reality, however, was a far more serious affair. A pair of wraith siege tanks, a platoon of varied Covenant infantry, and the presence of a sangheili commander, rather complicated the threadbare plan he had spent the past several days concocting during his march to the remains of the sabre launch facility. He had initially expected minimal, if any kind of enemy force disposition. The severity of this Covenant presence was a surprise, and reaffirmed the spartan’s deduction that there was a reason Reach had not yet been fully glassed.

Nevertheless B312 was undeterred from his current course of action. No matter the threat, whatever the means, he would accomplish his objective.

XX-XX-XX

This was, by a fair margin, the worst day of her life. In moments like these, Lumi Sudomi wondered why she had ever left her homeworld. In moments like this, she was also reminded that such a decision was by the will of the prophets.

However, it was difficult to take comfort in the sacredness of her duties when arms deep in the bowels of heretical machinery. The sharp jolt of pain, and the golden flash of sparks, was suitable castigation for her distraction.

“By the ancestors, confound this blasphemous technology!” She hissed, yanking her numbed hand away from the sparking panel buried in the heart of this unholy contraption. Human technology was fundamentally crude and boorish, and interfacing with their primitive machines was viewed as heretical, especially so as it had been decreed by the hierarchs.

Lumi, her mandibles twitching into a saurian smirk, found an endless source of amusement in the whole affair. As the war against the humans continued, and their _crude, primitive _technology proved to be nonetheless effective in stalling the mighty and oh so very sanctified Covenant military, such sanctions had been… carefully revised.

And she would admit, after having witnessed the tenacity of the humans in the defense of this world, she was starting to see why. Despite its rudimentary nature, when wielded in the hands of their creators, human technology could be used to devastating effect. As such she often wondered why it was the prophets were so single-minded in their desire to destroy the humans. Would it not be better for them to join in the great journey, would not their relentless tenacity be a great boon to the gods and their plans? Had they not earned the honor in the ways of the magelekgolo? Such questions were not unfamiliar in the average rank and file of the sangheili serving in the military. From the many she had spoken with, there was a popular opinion in regards to the humans and their persistence, especially amongst the younger warriors. Most saw it as a sign of great courage and resolve, despite their horrible inadequacies.

Where the kig-yar folded, they proved unrelenting, where the unggoy broke and routed, they fought to the bitter end, and where the yanme’e fell in masses, the humans sold each life dearly.

Unlike any of the Covenant member races, the humans and their spirit could not be broken. Each defeat, instead of shattering their morale, only made their determination that much greater, and their resistance that much fiercer. And Lumi Sudomi was certain that this war would not end with an overwhelming Covenant victory. She was, in fact, uncertain as to _when_ it would end. The swift and decisive victory the prophets had promised had, as of yet, not been delivered.

More importantly, a war initially projected to last months had been drawn out for twenty-seven long and painful years, and there was still no end in sight. Many were still waiting for the prophets to fulfill their promise.

But such opinions were dangerous to bear openly.

Lumi turned her gaze away from the mechanical intestines of the human aircraft, searching for any sign of the commander overseeing her project, as if he might be able to smell her sacrilegious thoughts. Yet the towering presence of the gold clad warrior was absent, and she remained alone in the hanger. Most likely the pompous male was off throwing his superiority around the repurposed human launch facility, though the thought was unfortunate.

She had noticed that Jur Moramee possessed a cruel disposition, and more worryingly, seemed to hold a definite… fondness for her. She desired greatly to finish her efforts here so that she might be assigned to a less uneasy tasking.

Breathing softly in relief at her solitude, she returned her attention towards the gutted human craft with renewed vitality, recording her findings with some personal interest. Regardless of her thoughts on the morale and governmental ambiguity of this war, she still had a task assigned to her, and great repercussions if she were discovered performing inadequately. And as luck would have it, she had vested curiosity in her work.

These humans were such fascinating creatures. Their machinery, while simple in comparison, was actually quite robust, and had a certain utilitarian design and function that bellied the true distinctiveness of their craft. There was something to be… admired, about the artless, yet undeniably functional and quite effective machines of theirs.

Lumi could think on the subject for hours, and indeed she might have if not for the earth shaking explosion that rocked the facility. The female sangheili stumbled from the human craft, thrown from her thoughts by the tremor, and watched the cloud of dust that fell from above. “What…?” She muttered to herself in a confused daze.

She took a step further away from the strange human contraption, thoughts flying in search of an answer for what was occurring. The humans had been pushed back from this world, their armies defeated and their ships left as lifeless wreckage up above. By definition they had lost occupation, and she had been promised that it would be safe to depart her ship and come down to investigate their technology, a promise ensured once again by the hierarchs themselves.

Yet… as she stood in silence now broken up by the occasional thump of explosions, and the brief startlingly interjection of weapons fire, the interpolation of the rapid _snap-pop_ rattle of human weaponry, she felt the icy jolt of uncertainty and disbelief strike her core.

Regardless of her incredulity, or in perhaps in spite of it, the sounds of war did not dissipate, but instead grew louder, and more frequent. The young sangheili female glanced about her makeshift workspace littered with scattered tools and un-attended rations, till her eyes landed upon the cast away outline of her issued service weapon, wondering only briefly as to the merit of arming herself.

The decision was discarded after only a brief internal debate. She had little experience in combat, other than her training on sanghelios. And unlike the vast majority of her kind, she did not take particular relish of violence. In this instance she was certain all that would occur if she tried to fight, would ensure an even more ignoble death.

Her choice made, and afraid to depart the perceived safety of her workstation, she waited for the future to come to her. The following passing of time was tense, and she could feel her muscles flex and strain futilely, her instincts still pushing her to fight or to flee, and yet higher reasoning prevailed, and she remained motionless, all the way until the far door to the room hissed open.

The figured seen inside caused a great sigh of relief to pass through her as she recognized the bright golden armor. And for once, she did not impulsively abhor his very presence. The towering warrior stepped inside, and she prepared to speak with him, to inquire as to what might have happened, when her eyes widened and she took a step back in shock.

Jur Moramee fell to his knees, his mandibles grasping and straining as he vomited dark blood upon the silvered steel of the human facility floor. In his place was an even larger shadow, a figure of splattered fluorescent blue and smeared purple. Lumi recognized the thick, functional bastion of overlapping metal, memorable as the artless but evocative combat harness of the humans’ greatest warriors, and the one true legitimate threat to Covenant preeminence. The only ones of their kind that could match the strength of her people, and accomplish feats that would have been legendary had they been of the same species. Here, in person, for the first time in Lumi Sudomi’s life, she stood before a demon.

She felt her knees threaten to buckle as the giant armored form of the human warrior strode into the antechamber, its armor drenched in the blood of her kin and the gentle glow of an appropriated and repurposed plasma rifle clutched in a massive gauntlet, the heated barrel of the weapon sweeping from side to side trailing wisps of venting plasma. The motion was replicated in tandem by the demon’s great helmet as it scanned the room for further threats.

Yet it saw no more of the Covenant’s numberless legions, finding little else but a comparatively diminutive sangheili female bedecked in simple clothing stained by oils and lubricant. No fierce weapon wielded, unless one found alarm in the unassuming computing device she grasped tightly in a shaking, four-fingered hand.

Lumi was no great warrior. She did not join the Covenant’s military arm to spread their faith through fire and sword. She was first and foremost a scientist, one of the few and far between of the sangheili to ever dain to touch a profession they considered beneath them. She had been ridiculed and mocked her entire life for persisting in her belief, and she had lost the support of her clan to be where she was today.

There existed no home for her on sanghelios, but so it seemed in this moment as the graceful form of the human warrior approached, so very large and imposing and driven, that such a thing would not remain long as a point of consideration.

It studied her with its impassive faceplate, and she expected to join the many others that had given their lives for the Great Journey. Instead she was treated to a heavy boot to the back of her knee, and a gauntlet to roughly catch the collar of her bodysuit as she fell. The barrel of the plasma rifle pressed tight against the back of her skull, the warmth emanating from its maw, was a stringent reminder of her tenuous grasp of life.

Its actions were so swift and coordinated, that she did not recognize what had occurred until after it was done, and she looked up towards the demon in shock. Her surprise was ignored as the human warrior seemed more interested in her work than herself. She watched as it stared at the partially disassembled fighter craft still secured into its launch cradle.

There was a full cycle of silence as it studied the culmination of several days of effort, before it ponderously shifted its helmet down to Lumi, her mandibled visage blurrily reflected in its golden, mirrored visor.

Then her skull cracked against the floor.

XX-XX-XX

Noble Six was… bemused. And while that was not an unfamiliar state of mind, in context with what he had walked in upon after clearing out the complex, blood still rushing with unspent adrenaline, this was perhaps the most illustrative of such a thought process.

He had expected numerous outcomes to his half-baked, ill-considered plan, most ending with his hard-fought demise and many dead aliens. However none of them had accoutered for… this.

The spartan, plasma rifle clutched uncertainly in a steady hand, stared down at the unconscious sangheili sprawled across the floor, rendered thusly by a stern fist to the back of the head, therefor alive and very much not dead. Hesitancy in the face of the enemy was not something usually associated with him, nor a spartan of any generation. Nevertheless, he found himself of… divided thought.

He was certainly no expert on the morphology of Covenant member species. He did not care for what form the enemy took, so long as their ultimate destiny was to lie bloodied and broken at his feet. And the sangheili were the highest upon that scale of cold calculation.

And yet, this was the first time he had ever encountered was what was in all appearance a Covenant non-combatant, who also happened to be a sangheili… and apparently a female.

Spartan B312 sighed, holstering his drawn weapon as he turned to address the more worrying and far direr complication that threatened his threadbare plans. The sabre, the vehicle that was supposed to at least guarantee his_ chance _at getting off this doomed planet, sat half-disassembled in its berth, its guts spread out in neatly categorized piles across the breadth of the launch bay, and was certainly in no condition to do anything it had been designed for.

Noble Six looked to the sabre, and then back to the unconscious alien, before grunting tiredly.

When it rains it pours.

XX-XX-XX

Ju’das departed the council chamber in a thunderous huff, the doors slamming shut behind him as he ventured into the depths of the carrier overcome by anger and disbelief that swelled and surged inside him like the tumultuous sea of his coastal home. Such was his fury, that by presence alone he parted the busied crowds of the ship’s hall, unggoy and sangheili alike staggering and stepping aside respectively to make way for the silent anger of the imposing and venerable field marshal.

How could the hierarchs be so blind? How could they be so uncaring? Did they not see the danger this abomination posed? Their skepticism had been apparent, crossing the vastness of space and imparted fully by the indifference upon their digitized features, and all the more wounding for it.

_A trivial concern, _they had called it. The deaths of more than a hundred warriors to the demon were _trivial_, the deaths of good friends and fine sangheili, staunch believers and pious souls, _trivial_.

He scoffed at the sightless imprudence of his leaders. So caught up in the grand arc of their vision that they did not recognize that the most crucial moments were born of the smallest details, they believed the demon would die on that world, assured him most adamantly that there was no possible way it would survive, not against the full might of the Covenant. Yet, despite their placations, in his hearts, Ju’das knew they were wrong to be so confident. He had made that same mistake, suffered that same blind arrogance when he had confronted the demon, standing amidst the bloodied wreckage of his brothers.

And he had been defeated, cast off and left for dead, his honor worth less than the blood that spurted from his throat.

Ju’das had slain demons before, all of varied, but undeniable skill. He was well known and respected for his deeds against the humans and their greatest warriors, at least he had once been. This demon was different… a creature that truly deserved its title. It was no more a warrior than a shackled beast that had stolen its title from its betters.

No.

The abomination would not die on that world.

He had crossed blades with it, and in so had learned the make and measure of its resolve, knew that it could not be stopped by anything less than an opponent of equal or greater will. The prophets did not understand matters of honor. And he would go so far as to claim that they suffered deficiencies in matters of warfare and grand strategy. But his concerns were of no import. Their commandments were absolute. And as of late many soldiers had grown too zealous in assuming their divinity.

They had forgotten that the hierarchs were not themselves gods, but simply their voice.

And of those he could count the Ministry as their most ardent supporters. As such he knew that any action he might take to thusly seek and defeat the abomination would be in direct opposition to his superiors.

This understanding placed Ju’das in an unexpected crisis of faith. For the first time in his many decades of service, he felt himself questioning the will of the prophets, and their collusion with the gods. Would not the gods wish a swift and righteous end to such an abomination as he had faced on the human world? Was not its very existence and affront to the Great Journey? He himself did not have the answers, nor it seemed, did the hierarchs.

“G-Great Marshal…”

Ju’das, though withdrawn in his thoughts as he waked the halls, had presence of mind enough to notice the stunted creature that shuffled up towards him, the diminutive unggoy tottering at a run to match the long legged stride of the much taller sangheili. In recognition he slowed his pace, both as a result of his curiosity and as a courtesy to the stumpy little being that visibly struggled to maintain its closeness.

Most of his people did not hold the unggoy in high regard, they were as a species, inherently fainthearted, and made less than adequate soldiers, treated instead as fodder for the frontlines. Nor did their stature and their strained grasp of the common tongue garner them much respect amongst their peers. Nevertheless, through experience Judas had come to consider them as some of the most devout followers, and could, as certain individuals, possess considerable heart and courage in some of the direst of circumstances.

Further more than that, Judas recognized this particular individual.

Mandibles curling in the slightest imitation of a smile, the large figure of the sangheili turned towards his stout follower. “Minor Nipnup.” He greeted the little creature as it slowed to a more manageable walk, looking up to the towering field marshal gratefully.

“Thank much, Great Marshal. Nipnup not good at running fast.” The squat unggoy, upon seeing the sangheili’s courteous nod, eagerly held a dataslate up for Ju’das to take. “I bring message, Great Marshall. Special Operations Officer Chadamee requests your presence in Hanger C. He say, _it very important Nipnup,_ must hurry-bring Great Marshal, quick-fast!”

Taking the device from the unggoy’s thickset digits, the sangheili examined the information compiled for him, and felt his hearts quicken. “When came you by this?”

“Nipnup only just received orders, found you quick-fast yes?” The unggoy asked enthusiastically.

“You did well to find me so quickly.” Ju’das praised the little creature, clapping a hand against its shoulder. “I am most grateful.”

Nipnup’s grin, while obstructed by his clunky breathing apparatus, was heard enough in his jubilant exclamation as he turned and beckoned excitedly. “Thank much, Great Marshal. Nipnup glad to be of service! Now come quick, Nipnup will show you the way!”

Ju’das nodded once more, amused at the young unggoy’s eagerness, and followed after the little creature that seemed to have picked up a second wind and impressive stamina, his little legs thumping rapidly on the deck as he led the sangheili to his destination. Some in the hall seemed disgruntled at the small intruder that upset their schedule as he charged recklessly through the crowd, but upon noticing the imposing figure of the sangheili Field Marshal behind him, they were wise to keep their irritation to themselves. 

Ju’das Rasumai was not one to be trifled with.

XX-XX-XX

Spartan B312 was… irritated.

Of all the complications he had expected and prepared for, of all the possibilities of outside interference he had predicted, having to reassemble the partly disassembled components of his escape craft was, in point of fact, not amongst his plans.

It did not help either that he was racing against time. He had done his best to eliminate the Covenant occupation force guarding the facility before they could report his attack, but he had assaulted the entire complex without support. After all he was probably the last human left alive on Reach. Spartan or not, it was inconceivable to assume he could have been fast enough to prevent a call for reinforcements.

They would be coming. And Noble Six would not be here to greet them.

Or so at least that was as far as his plan went.

Reality was proving to be far more bothersome.

The spartan, reconstructing and reinserting the stripped components of the sabre’s main fuselage, glanced back to his unexpected captive as his gauntlets flew in a frenzy of deft activity. The saurian alien sat propped against the far wall, bound by a length of discarded piping he had bent into a set of makeshift manacles, still unconscious from the blow it received to the back of the head. As before, his thoughts darkened upon laying eyes at the alien that still breathed as a direct result of his restraint.

Since the moment he had spared its life, Noble Six had been trying to understand the motive that had stayed his hand. Something could be said in favor of the Rules of Engagement and its policy in regards to noncombatants, but it was also clear that the Covenant didn’t give two shits about ROEs. There was no reason he should have bothered either. Fair was fair, after all.

Yet there the thrice damned alien sat, very much still alive.

The spartan grunted dismissively, discarding the alien from his thoughts as he returned to the work at hand. Currently he didn’t have the luxury to second guess his in-the-moment decision making skills. The sangheili female was alive, and for the interim, she would remain so. Right now, he needed to focus on getting off this planet before it went to hell in a handbasket.

His own situation was less than ideal. He needed thirty to forty minutes to put the sabre back together, and a further ten to fifteen to run a diagnostic to make sure he hadn’t screwed up somewhere along the way.

Fully expecting a Covenant incursion somewhere between then and now, he had made his preparations. The doors to the launch pad had been sealed, and all facility systems had been rerouted to the technician terminal hooked up to the cradle. The base itself had been put into lockdown, which should buy him at least twenty minutes when Covenant forces arrived.

However, the upper control room offered any opposition an advantageous overwatch that gave them nearly perfect vision over the hanger. If any enemy forces were able to secure it before he departed, his chances of escape were pretty much null and void. Since he had no intention of being bombarded by fuel rod cannons from a superior position, he had left a suitable surprise in store.

Despite the delay it had caused, Noble Six had spent a brief interlude divesting the facility’s armory, and had compiled a formidable assortment of weapons and supplies, condensing them into a pair of storage crates he planned to take with him. Should the second stage of his incredibly stupid and unrealistic plan actually work, he figured he’d have need of the equipment to buy him the time necessary to reach the third phase.

Everything, absolutely _everything_ hinged on his ability to get the sabre working, if for whatever reason it would not fly, then his preparations here would be his last. In that case, he would have no cause for worry, and as such did not put too much thought into that eventuality.

All he needed was a little bit of time.

And yet the deep, thunderous reverberations that shook the very foundations of the sabre launch facility and interrupted his efforts, were inclination enough that time would soon become a precious commodity.

XX-XX-XX

“The abomination… it is here?” Ju’das turned to the warrior standing beside him, his voice hushed by the din of weapons preparation and the murmured benedictions voiced by the small team of sangheili Special Forces operators and their unggoy companions. Their goal was simple, and yet their target was anything other than that. They were here to hunt a demon, perhaps the most dangerous yet.

Ju’das, having a personal vestment in this hunt, cared little to disguise his interest, which was transposed well enough for his companion to hear. The commander of the lance chuckled softly as he replied. “Worry not, Marshal Rasumai.” Officer Chadamee, mandibles flexing amusedly, eyed Ju’das patiently. “You will have the demon you seek, and with it, your honor restored.”

Ju’das huffed and snapped his jaws dismissively at the indirect slight. “You need not remind me of the merits of honor, Chadamee.”

“Of course, my Marshal.” The special operations officer inclined his head deeply. “T’was merely an observation, no affront was intended. I have naught but respect for your contributions to the Great Journey. Your accounts are legendary, even in my keep.”

Ju’das dained not to reply, and instead walked to the edge of the phantom’s troop compartment. The sangheili turned his thoughts to the horizon, looking thoughtfully upon yet another world turned to glass.

The humans had fought admirably, they always did. But, as always, they failed. Reach they had called this place, and they had battled fiercely in its defense. Many ships in the _Fleet of Particular Justice _had been destroyed in the war for orbital supremacy, and many warriors had given their lives to secure victory on the surface. The unexpected difficulty of this campaign was a stringent reminder of yet another unfulfilled promise from the hierarchs.

It felt as if they were no closer to winning this war then they had been thirteen years ago, and Ju’das spared little thought to the less than zealous nature of his musings, looking instead to the surface of another world that had been disfigured by the fury of their faith. Was their hate for the humans so fierce, so unrelenting, as to merit the destruction of desirable worlds? This would have made for a beautiful colony, the seas had once been bright blue, the air had been crisp and unsoiled by harsh pollutants, and the grasslands had possessed a beauty all their own.

Now, the oceans boiled, and the plains were little more than glass. The air was hot and heavy, the bitter tang of ash a constant companion of every breath. This planet had been ruined, lost like so many others on their path of conquest. And Ju’das took umbrage with yet another decisions of the prophets.

He had been inducted into the studies of war at a young stage in his life, like all sangheili. He had learned of tactics and stratagems at an age where other races focused more on childish games. And his skills with a blade had been honed through his adolescent years under punitive tutors.

It was not unreasonable to conclude that he had been born for war. And yet this was no like no war he had ever participated in.

More accurately, this was nothing but an extermination. They did not spare the human young, nor the elderly and infirm. They did not keep prisoners. Any human unfortunate enough to be captured, found their last moments to be used as little more than sport, or perhaps even as a meal for a pack of hungry jiralhanae or a coven of backbiting kig-yar.

The lauded tenets of the Covenant, the principles that defined their religion and unified the diverse species of their empire, had been discarded in favor of this policy of unremitting genocide. And they were so surprised, that the humans fought so tenaciously?

The line between right and wrong had ever grown blurred in the years of this war, and Ju’das did not feel the same staunchness of faith as he had at the onset of this crusade. He had watched far too many good warriors die, and the screams of the defenseless often became a familiar companion in the dead of night. He had witnessed more horrors propagated upon the humans in the past twenty-seven years, then had ever been done between all the species of the Covenant in the entirety of its existence.

He had seen good friends turn cruel and vindictive, and had heard the delight some of his peers took in crushing a technologically inferior foe and the pleasure they took in their physical superiority over the average human. More than once he had watched one of his collogues toy with a human warrior, offering the illusion of hope to a broken and battered creature, moments before snuffing it out.

Ju’das could only turn his thoughts to such memories, and wonder if it was really so surprising that the abomination was so full of hate and malice. The demons had been the humans’ answer to the wrongs forced upon their people.

As a collective, humans were small and weak, placed on a scale somewhere between an unggoy and a kig-yar. They were brave and coordinated fighters possessing an impressive understanding of strategy that few of the citizens of the Covenant could match, but in physical combat with most member species, they were inherently disadvantaged.

Yet the demons were the manifestation of their resolve. He had seen a demon, alone and unaided, make a mockery of the best the Covenant had to offer. Their exploits were infamous amongst the ranks and accounts of their activities were as consummate as they were omitted by the ministry, able to turn great hordes of unggoy on appearance alone, and give pause to the greatest of jiralhanae.

The phantom soared over the last mountain between them and their target, leaning into a steep dive that crested the jutting rock formations and skimmed just above the open field that spanned for several kilometers outside the human compound.

Ju’das looked on to their destination, studying the destruction that had been revisited upon the human dwelling. He could see already, proof that the abomination had indeed been here as Chadamee had promised, an unfortunate truth for the warriors sent here on their mission.

The gates of the military installation, blasted open in the initial assault, had proved no deterrent to the demon, nor had the pair of wraith tanks in their place. Both vehicles burned with blue flames, belching black smoke into the sky, and even as the dropship neared he could smell the occupants cooking within their hulls. 

Several bodies lay sprawled nearby, mostly kig-yar, riddled with the crude ballistics of human weaponry, and stripped of their own, no doubt to supplement the demon’s arsenal as it furthered its unknown ambitions. The sangheili field marshal sighed heavily as the phantom sped forwards at the sight, the pilot eager to unload his cargo so that they might enact retribution.

Seeing all that he needed, Ju’das made his preparations for what was to come, and followed the special operations team as they disembarked the transport. Moral was high despite the scene they had arrived to, and he could tell that the sangheili amongst them were fervent for the task, each no doubt wondering if they would be the one to claim the honor that awaited them.

Ju’das could only sigh and offer a humble prayer. These warriors were strong and experienced, veterans of many operations and campaigns, but he could see in their actions, in the way they showed little hesitancy, that they had not yet faced a demon in combat.

They were unprepared and the field marshal wondered if he himself was ready to face his foe again. He worried that more than his honor had been lost in his defeat at the abominations behest.

The dual, heavy impacts that slammed into the dirt behind him however, were enough to encourage Ju’das, reminding him that unlike before, he would not be on his own. He glanced over his shoulder to the pair of towering magelekgolo that marched in step, their bond synchronizing their movements to a near ethereal perfection. Each was armored in the equivalent of starship grade hull plating festooned in spines, and wielded immense cannons that fired beams of emerald energy.

The magelekgolo, Ju’das predicted, would be the deciding factor if they were to emerge victorious. For demons were cunning, and this abomination was no different, numbers alone did not guarantee victory. Both human and sangheili scholars had made note of this fact, and there was precedence for such knowledge.

“Come, Marshal, we have prey to hunt!” Chadamee called to him eagerly, the stalwart sangheili leading his lance past the gates and into the facility proper, stepping over the corpses of their brethren who had tried, and failed, to accomplish what so many had attempted before.

Ju’das, sparing one last cursory glance to the pair of behemoths that strode behind him and conversed with one another in the deep rumble of their speech, followed in the footsteps of the eager officer, though he did not share such a fervent disposition.

The truth was, as he came to realize, that reality had no place with zealousy.

XX-XX-XX

He was out of time.

They had come for him, and sooner than he had been prepared for. B312 took a reprieve from his efforts to prepare, rearranging supply crates into an improvised barricade around the launch pad. It would not ward off heavy weapons, but it would hopefully keep the sabre from any significant damage that might prevent his launch.

The spartan, in the midst of stacking his defenses, refrained from dwelling on the very real possibility that he would not survive overlong afterwards. His end had already been decided, and all his current efforts were really just to see how far he could push the envelope.

As ready as he would ever be, Noble Six, after a period of hard thinking, pulled the female sangheili to the side of the launch bay, away from the worst of the firefight to come. Having decided that he would at least not be directly responsible for her death, and unwilling to think on his leniency any further, stashed the alien out of sight, and therefor out of mind.

His affairs settled, the spartan returned to his more important dealings in greater haste. With the enemy closing in, he’d have to cut a few steps from his plan, namely the maintenance diagnostic on the sabre’s core systems. That bought him ten minutes, though he would need at least twice that much to get the ship operational.

B312 grimaced as he reaffixed the outer paneling on the hull. This was not as glorious of an end as he had been hoping it would be. So far he felt more like a mechanic than a spartan. In truth, he was almost glad for the arrival of the enemy as they fit more in line with his expectations, although he was soon to regret the thought when his motion tracker triggered

Noble Six counted the red dots that closed in on his position, noticing that their number was smaller than anticipated. However their grouping and pace was recognizable, and he readjusted his plans to account for the appearance of a special ops unit. They would be more difficult than the usual massed infantry waves the Covenant employed. But he had dealt with his fair share of Special Forces before.

The spartan pulled aside from the sabre, stacking up against the closest container and retrieving the long bodied, distinctly alien frame of the focus rifle he had stashed earlier. It was not as directly potent as the particle rifle, but he was not exactly flush with options at the moment.

Reaching an arm back to the slot in his armor at the base of his spine, he extracted the armor mod and slotted in a piece of Covenant tech. His HUD flashed as it downloaded and unencrypted the foreign software, integrating the alien system into his Mjolnir. He wasted no time, and as soon as the patch was installed, he keyed its function, disappearing in a shimmer of reflected light.

He waited to spring his trap, watching the command center as the aliens entered the room above the launch pad. They used standard tactics, nothing special or particularly noteworthy, grunts above with heavy explosives, assisted by a pair of jackals with support weapons. As the radar contacts had split earlier, he knew that the core sangheili lance was making their way down to him.

B312 was somewhat impressed that they had cleared the rest of the facility so quickly, and he knew that would mean he had even less time to work with then he had first thought. He just might have to launch without a few sheets of the external hull, unfortunate, but survivable.

Noble Six decided to skip any formalities in favor of triggering the detonator.

His visor polarized, and the spartan hunkered down as the windows blew out of the command and control center, gutters of flame shooting from the frames, scattering warped chunks of metal and charred body parts. Stepping from cover, he tossed a frag up and into the devastation, preparing a second just as the doors to the launch room were blasted open.

Pulling the pin, he chucked it through the smoke and repositioned behind a maintenance console at the bottom of the ramp. Three seconds and the ground shook as the grenade burst in the hallway, and the spartan shouldered the fusion lance in preparation.

The first sangheili to stumble out of the smoke fell to the floor soon after, bisected by the beam of directed energy that separated its legs from its torso, and the second followed swiftly in the footsteps of its predecessor. The corpses fell, and for a moment there was no one else to follow.

Then three blue spheres hurtled inside, and the spartan crouched low as the explosions tore through the room, taking fire to the tarps that had been lain out by men long since dead. Following in the wake of the flames was the enemy, his motion tracker flashing with activity as several contacts stormed inside, laying a thick torrent of plasma bolts into anything and everything they could see.

As the spartan was invisible, he was not amongst their targets. Instead he lunged forwards and caught the first alien in the gut with his shoulder. The giant saurian, draped in ornamented regalia, did not have the chance to contemplate its failures, as the spartan locked his elbow around its throat and wrenched its head backwards past biological limitations.

Snatching the plasma repeater from its limp grip, he tucked an arm under its pits and held the corpse out in front of him to absorb the worst of the returning fire and allow the spartan the flexibility to pick and choose his own targets. 

Obscured by the growing haze of smoke from the flames and his partially effective active camo, most of the shots taken on him were near misses, and those that did make it through were dulled by the barrier of metal and flesh he had imposed between himself and his adversaries.

And then there was a flash of green, and an overwhelming surge of heat.

The spartan blacked out, only to regain his senses and notice that he was now draped haplessly over a smoldering crate halfway across the hanger. His shields crackled and sparked, indicating that the generator had overloaded, and that he was dangerously vulnerable. He could taste copper, and his nose was filled with the smell of burning ozone.

Noble Six tumbled back over the crate and rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the second beam of viridian light he had been expecting. The plasmatic lance punched through the steel box and slammed into the far wall, boring a hole into a foot of titanium sheet metal.

He grimaced.

Hunters…

They would be a problem. 

While he had anticipated that the Covenant would bring out their walking artillery, the limited arsenal he had on hand was not appropriate compensation. With that he had now his odds of success were… less than optimal. His suicide mission, as it seemed, had just become even more suicidal.

So be it.

B312 primed his muscles and launched forward. Diving hard, he cut under another burst from a hunter’s assault cannon and came out of his maneuver at full speed, clenching hard on the fire assembly of a plasma rifle wielded in either gauntlet. The fusilladed of shaped energy splashed harmlessly against the massive shields that blockaded the entry doors.

Then the shields parted like a gate comprised of starship grade hull plating. Two gaping barrels jutted forth from behind the makeshift barricade, crackling with building energy.

In answer, Noble Six lobbed a frag right between them. The pair of shields slammed shut like a coffin lid, but they were too slow to stop a spartan. There was a muted thump, and a flash, as the grenade detonated and showered the outer corridor and its occupants in shrapnel.

The shield bearer on the left sagged and thrummed in pain, providing the slightest of openings for B312 to ply his only advantage. The spartan threw himself forwards, breaching the gap with a millimeter to spare. He landed hard on his spine, guns up and firing into the unprotected backs of the two hunters.

With the understanding that momentum was the only thing preventing him from being killed, Noble Six flipped into a backwards somersault and slammed his elbow into the throat of the closest sangheili warrior. The blow was solid, the impact traveling through even though its shields endured, it was strong enough to send the beast gasping. Retracting his arm, he prepared a supercharged haymaker and plunged it into the second.

All of this occurred in the span of five seconds.

And then the world went still.

XX-XX-XX

It was not long before the demon fell amongst their dwindling number to thwart everything they had prepared to accomplish. Their plan had been executed perfectly, simple but effective. Heavy weapons from above to cover their steady approach upon the abomination’s position, and a vanguard of the best close quarters fighters supported by the hunter pair. By all rights it should have been more than sufficient, even for one such as the prey they hunted.

And yet, from the reach echelon Ju’das was able to watch as all of their efforts were undone.

The fire support, so carefully positioned and prepared, had been incinerated, along with the entire room they had set-up in. No doubt their killer had been a charge placed prior to their arrival. The first warriors to charge into the room were scythed down as they entered into a prepared kill zone, and Chadamee himself had been killed and hoisted like a puppet to turn away their fire as it advanced upon them. His death was unfortunate and yet ultimately expected. Chadamee had been brave, but foolish, a trait that seemed to dominate sangheili culture throughout this war.

It was, Ju’das feared, a characteristic that the demons and this abomination frequently exploited.

And as the magelekgolo were wounded, giving their adversary the opening it needed to slip amongst them, he could see firsthand what their sense of entitlement had done to them as the creature made a mockery of their martial mastery. There was nothing to blame but their own complacency.

Minors Raso and Kyaza were felled quickly, perhaps even mercifully, so they did not have to face the shame of their failure. Ju’das stepped away from the armored monster, wary of its physical ability and unwilling to take a risk he did not need. He took the opportunity to plan his reprisal, and hope the magelekgolo could accomplish what he had been unable to.

The eldest of the pair, as told by its greater height and lengthened spines, was the first to turn and face the threat among them. Wielding its shield like a ram it sent the partition of metal rocketing out towards the abomination with the full intent of splattering it against the facility wall.

Such, however, was not to be.

It contorted like water around a stone, the hilted device in the human’s left hand stuttering to life. And it was by Ju’das’ ancestral blade that one of the mightiest Covenant soldiers was slain. The plasma sword, one that had been in his lineage for generations, hacked through the massive magelekgolo’s unarmored midriff with traitorous ease.

The sangheili could feel his ancestors cry out at the indignity, and so with a hateful roar he charged forward, all plans forgotten, plasma repeater thundering at his despicable foe. His enraged shout was amplified a thousand times by the deep reverberation of the magelekgolo bond brother as it threw itself upon the abomination in a fit mindless insanity.

The human warrior discarded all weapons but that which it had stolen and raised an arm to ward off Ju’das’ attack, the familiar form of a kig-yar point defense gauntlet activating in an amber haze. The barrier turned away his shots, and the relentless demon moved too quickly to be brought down by the sluggishness of the magelekgolo’s lumbering swipes. The abomination weaved in close under its guard and struck thrice with the thieved blade in rapid succession, cutting deep into the unarmored gaps and divesting the hulking beast of both its arms and its right leg.

Boiling blood and charred worms spewed from the severed limbs, and Ju’das felt sorrow as the once proud creature collapsed with a pitiful rumble by the corpse of its fallen brother, defeated and denied its vengeance. The sangheili field marshal realized in that moment as the blood soaked demon, painted in the fluids of his comrades in arms, turned its visored gaze upon him… that they were not enough to stop it.

He had thought his will… his faith, to be stronger than that of honorless abomination. But as he matched its stare and watched as it readied itself to face him, wielding the honored weapon of his forefathers, he knew that after decades of battle he had finally met his match.

Nevertheless he drew Kyaza’s blade from its owner’s corpse and readied to greet the gods. If he had lost his honor in life, he would at least find it again in death.

XX-XX-XX

“Your blasphemy ends here, abomination. I swear it.” 

B312 was… less than enthusiastic at the prospect of facing the same foe twice. If he were to consider as well, the state he had left this particular alien in, he would also admit that to see it again was a surprise, an exasperating one at that. He might have been impressed with its persistence if not for its bastardized heritage.

In view of that, he was instead rather infuriated. Noble Six was not in the mood for games, and had since lost his taste for the dramatic. His limited operational window had not included the possibility of an alien hell-bent on revenge.

And his timetable had shrunk as much as he would allow.

_“Fuck off.”_ The spartan snarled wearily, and turned his back on the slavering sangheili warrior.

Though it was not a native of the dominant human language, it was prescient enough to understand an insult when it heard one. Many human warriors had no doubt uttered similar declarations before meeting their end at its hand.

The sangheili field marshal gargled, its hoarse vocalization lost somewhere between an enraged growl and a disbelieving scoff as it wondered at the demon’s boundless temerity. It raised its taken blade, ready to sink it into the unguarded back of his adversary, when it heard the rattle of several metallic objects on the floor.

The alien glanced down and watched a trio of grenades bounce off the ground and roll towards him.

XX-XX-XX

Noble Six left the marshal to the tender mercies of his farewell gift, and dusted the ensuing shrapnel flakes off his armor. He would have preferred to confirm the kill, or at least have the satisfaction of watching the damn thing bleed out, but he could not suffer any more delays. The op was already a stretch on realistic expectations, and he was adverse to the idea of wasting what little luck he had left.

Luck as he had come to understand it, belonged to other people.

Amidst the carnage and wreckage of the recent firefight the object of all his preparations rested in its cradle, remarkably intact and as ready to fly as it would ever be. B312 worked quickly, loading the trunks and running a very brief pre-flight checklist, enough to ensure that it would not explode upon ignition. If the sabre was to go up in flames, he’d prefer to burn up in atmosphere.

With the fuel in the tank he had the means to accomplish his objective. And with the cannons loaded and the missile racks full, he’d be able to stop anything that tried to stop him, at least anything within the confines of reason. He held no illusions that a sabre might outgun a Covenant cruiser of any class or nomination.

Noble Six climbed up the gantry and opened the canopy with the keypad recessed into the hull paneling beside, scaling up the vertical incline and into the pilot’s seat with a slow, welcomed familiarity. Before Reach, before ONI had tasked him with running anti-Covenant operations, he had been one of few test pilots for the new flight system, and was unusually versed in avionics for a spartan. He wasn’t much of a scientist, but military technology was somewhat of a personal passion of his.

He knew the ins and outs of the YSS-1000 almost as naturally as his Mjolnir, and his flight record and the operation over Mamore indicated as much.

B312 patted the flight stick, running his other gauntlet over the onboard system display with the lingering trace of genuine affection, although his fondness was tainted by memories of his last trip. He hoped that his sacrifice would be something 052 could be proud of, and something the enemy would never forget.

The spartan skipped most of the actual checklist as he started ignition, the shudder that surged through the sabre’s hull knocking loose a memory he had turned aside for lack of interest. He glanced out the canopy, wondering for whatever reason, if the sangheili female had survived the engagement. He had never been directly responsible for the death of a noncombatant, at least insofar as ONI recognized. The idea of it left an… unpleasant taste in his mouth.

Regardless, the memory was a fleeting one that the spartan ultimately disregarded as he turned to more important matters at hand.

After all, he had a ship to hijack.

XX-XX-XX

For the second time that day, Ju’das Rasumai regained consciousness in a way that was disagreeable. The smell of smoke and human explosives wafted into his nostrils, and the sangheili field marshal groaned as he climbed to his hooved feet amidst the thick blanket of smoke.

He recalled, to his dissatisfaction, the insult he was rendered, and felt his bile rise with his anger. Had he not thought the abomination despicable enough, it now did not even dain him a worthy opponent. It had nearly done him away in the most contemptible of fashions, and that was a slight that could not stand.

Ju’das climbed over the bodies of the fallen magelekgolo and through the flames, into the debris strewn chamber of the human hanger. There he saw the bodies of his fellow warriors, more proud sangheili dead at the hands of the beast. He doubted that he might even find anything left of the warriors stationed up above. And in that moment, he could taste the bitterness of defeat in the acrid pollution that rose from the flames.

They had stood no chance against its cunning, and its resourcefulness was at a hitherto untold aptitude. It had seen through their plans before they had even made them, and turned the best the Covenant had to offer into bumbling children tripping over their own feet.

He saw no sign of it, and had at first no inclination as to where it might have gone, at least until he noticed the empty, primitive launch cradle. The abomination had absconded with its victory and taken to flight, its plans as of yet unknown, but intent clear to read. Wherever it had departed, death was soon to follow.

Sighing heavily at the fullness of his shame, Ju’das activated his communications device and hailed his pilot. The conduct of their conversation had been brief and pointed. The male had seemed ecstatic at first, but his mood had darkened as the information was given. The call completed shortly, and Ju’das was left to wait for his arrival.

The aged sangheili swordmaster took in again, the sight of their efforts, and sat upon the sagging weight of a human container, content to stew in his bitterness till his transport returned. There were many dead in this operation, and they had nothing to show for it.

Should the hierarchs learn of this, they would be most displeased, The Ministry, perhaps even more so. If the gods were on his side, he might at least be granted a swift death.

If not… as it so happened to be, there has not yet been another arbiter in many years.

The faint rustle of movement drew him from his bleak musing, and the field marshal rose from his seat slowly, his actions calm and collected. He knew the abomination was gone, but perhaps there was someone else that might have survived its tending.

If there was at least one other, he would thank the gods for their kind benefaction.


	3. Absolution

Space - despite the tumultuous maelstrom of death and violence that had been visited upon the silent dark above the fallen world - was peaceful. A sense of stillness had descended upon the remains of a battlefield decided long ago. The flashing light of weapons fire no longer traced like bolts of starlight across the vastness of infinity and the engines of great machines no longer churned eddies of disturbances across the serenity of airless seas.

Armistice had descended upon the once fierce frontline of humanity’s latest attempt at staving off the intruding inevitability of its laborious decline. And for Noble Six, it was all the bitter for it.

A new asteroid belt had been spawned into existence, born of the shattered hulls of hundreds of vessels, some alien, but far too many human. The field of debris stretched vast in its dimension, both in lateral and longitudinal vectors, an orbital graveyard that kept in its lifeless hulks the voided remains of thousands of souls. It was like many such artificial creations before it, a harsh lesson in futility. 

Once again the staunchest of mankind’s efforts were left barren and discarded, cast away like the neglected toys of a careless god. There was no hope to behold at the sight of broken warships and blasted fragments of wasted humanity despoiled and made wane by the callousness of extraterrestrial rage. There was no rallying cry of vengeance afire in his heart, no call for retribution in an impassioned voice.

He only felt tired, and cold.

The lone shadow of his sabre weaved slowly through the sprawling wreckage of what had once been an enormous battle, coasting on the intermittent sputter of maneuvering thrusters and precipitated only by the sheer tenacity of his indomitable patience. The intent was to appear as little more than a chunk of errant debris, no different from thousands of other such pieces that drifted amid the ruins. As he had not yet been hunted by a pack of seraph interceptors, he could only assume that his deception had confounded Covenant sensors.

It was not the first time, but he was sure it’d be the last.

Noble Six had spent many hours searching the debris field, scanning by vision alone for the lauded prize he sought. He dwelled little on the possibility that what he sought did not exist, after all, the Covenant were nothing if not thorough. Yet there was no place for doubt, not now and not ever. If he was not to find his target, well…

The spartan glanced out the canopy into an infinite void of black.

He had a feeling he’d have more than enough time to make his peace. 

But not yet, it would not end until he was given his pound of flesh. He had a plan, not a very good one, but good enough, he hoped, to see this to the end. Everything he had left, everything he was, had built to this last opportunity.

There was no second chance, no coming back.

He had one shot to make this work, with no guarantee of success.

The prospect was enough to force him to smile, as grim as it may have been. He supposed that in truth nothing had really changed. The odds had always been against him, every day of every moment, every breath, was in defiance of the monsters that had taken his life, his family, and a hope for a future. Now was the hour.

He would have his reparation.

The spartan laid eyes upon his objective, one of many lifeless shells that floated in the abyss, yet made remarkable for the fact it was suitable for his needs. The eviscerated superstructure of the UNSC heavy cruiser did not quite cut the same noble profile as it once did, and the cloud of crystallized hydrogen and spaced personnel did not count itself as the warmest welcoming mat he had trod upon.

But dead was dead, and they were long beyond his help.

Maneuvering thrusters sparked twice, the first turning the nose of the sabre in the direction of the hanger and the second pushing the small profile of the strike craft inside past the warped metals of what had once been the launch doors. There was little left that was recognizable, and from his experience Noble Six was able to discern that a plasma torpedo had been the final death of this ship and her crew.

There was no real defense against the overwhelming superiority of Covenant technology, and so was the work of their power realized in the wake of its devastation. The warhead of superheated plasma had gutted the heart of the once mighty colossus, melting through meters of Grade-A titanium battleplate to tear the life from the marathon class cruiser’s core, opening its iron bowels to the cruel grasp of the void. The damage was catastrophic, and as he popped the sabre’s canopy and floated out into the debris strewn skeleton of the desolate warship, he wondered if this really was the answer he had been searching for.

It must have, since it was pervaded by the touch of death he knew so keenly.

The corridors of the ship, at least those not fully exposed to hard vacuum, were strewn with broken corpses and sheets of paneling ripped from the deck. The spartan weaved through the frozen remains and pushed aside lengths of cable suspended from the exposed wiring inside the ceiling. His spacewalk through the ravaged interior was decidedly different than customary. The route was frequently interrupted by emergency bulkheads that sealed core sections of the dead ship, not that they had prevented much in the end. Regardless of the obstructions, there were plenty of breaches and crude exterior openings for him to find a way around the impediments and in that way memory served as his guide, leading him to the first of two destinations.

The engine room, like most compartments, had been severely damaged in the ship’s final battle, revealed in full by the powerful light emanating from his headlamp attachment. The beam of photons revealed cooled slag seeped from half-formed walls, like the watery tines of a metal waterfall locked in endless winter. Given the myriad of obstacles he was compelled to maneuver down through the floating maze of hull plating and abandoned circuitry. And though outside appearance foreshadowed significant damage to interior systems, he was relieved to discover that the destruction was limited mostly to the external coverings. Setting his boots on the deck with the dull thump of magnetized steel, he brushed a gauntlet across the maintenance console’s display.

The screen flickered to life, albeit dimly, and the spartan worked quickly to access whatever remained of the ship’s electrical systems. There wasn’t much to speak of in regards to power, little more than the pilot light of a dying star.

But, it was enough.

His work was brief, but extraneous, as he applied his incomplete knowledge of aerospace technology and extensive understanding in mechanical engineering to breathe new life into the ship’s reactor. Sufficient enough to restore working order to the engines, weapons systems, and the key to his half-cocked plans, it was not quite able to turn the lights back on or restore any semblance of life-support. But even if it were he would not have taken the risk. Anymore energy and they’d light up like a nuke on any Covenant sensors across the system.

The spartan glanced at his Heads Up Display, noting the counter at the bottom right of his vision that continuously cycled lower and lower. There was less than sixty minutes left in his air tank before he would start to suck down C02, and significantly less than that before he blacked out. It was good then, that his plan would actually work, as the thought of suffocating on a dead starship hardly appealed to him. The thought of death reminded Noble Six of his encroaching mortality, and the spartan grew contemplative and withdrawn, bathed in the irradiated fissile of the reactor that shed an intermittent blue hue across the battle-scarred breadth of engineering. The power plant’s dying efforts to return to full functionality offered a token source of vision as he exited the empty compartment and took an express route through the spine of the fallen warship. With power came access, lifting the emergency lockdown and giving him a direct line to the bridge.

The time spent in transit was… peaceful. If not for the occasional frozen corpse bloating the corridors and the horrific scarring left in the wake of the conflict that had ruined the cruiser, it might have been a pleasant experience. The practical architecture of the halls evoked a sense of needed familiarity, and was a reminder that he was one step closer to getting the rest he had long sought.

Near on fifteen years he’d served in the best interest of mankind. In that time he’d lost a hell of a lot more than he’d won, friends, family… his entire world. The Covenant had taken all of this from him at an age where he had been unable to even recognize the true extent of his circumstances. The years in the absence of all the comfort’s he had grown to appreciate, and the realization that the normalcy he had once known would never come back, had been a harsh reality check.

Noble Six forewent such distractions as he stepped onto the bridge to a scene suspended in time, bodies still buckled into duty stations, the duress of their last moments frozen on their grim countenances for the remainder of eternity, or so at least as long as the ship was still needed. Focus was mandatory if he were to implement his grand design. There were yet pieces to be played, the last crux that hinged success or failure.

The spartan-III approached the captain’s seat, unbuckled the stiffened woman from her station, and released her icy corpse into the borderless beyond waiting outside the bridge’s shattered windows. She had done her duty, and it was time he performed his. Six subsumed her position, interfacing with the neural lace jack to take command of the shattered derelict. The connection was crude, and never intended to be taken so far. But considering the situation, and his lack of self-preservation, he was not overly concerned with any long-term side-effects.

Sitting in the dark amidst the dead, in governance of a ship that would sail one last time not for the UNSC, but under the spirit of vengeance, Noble Six revisited his memories, searching for some kind of solace in past deeds as he laid eyes upon his target and set course. Though when engines flared, forcing the broken skeleton of a starship to partake in its final flight, the spartan grasped, with a sense of detached reality, that there was no solace for a man like him. He could not recall the tattered remnants of his childhood or the features of his parentage. He had nothing but the war, and a decade and a half of war-torn reflections to contemplate. And in those bloodied memories there was no reprieve.

The end, _his_ end, would come, and he would have no pleasant thoughts. The impending culmination of his retribution, as he discovered here at the apex of his plans, did not fill the emptiness in his heart. That would have been too far a kindness for the likes of him.

He would die unfulfilled and discontent.

And yet what else was there he might have suspected?

Silence deafened his senses, broken only by the steady pace of his breathing, yet sufficiently quiet to offer him a gratuitous bubble in which to dwell on his impermanence in ponderous introspection. Outside his musing, the ravaged hulk of his commandeered marathon class cruiser pulled away from the debris field, first at a sedate pace, and then, as minutes passed, gaining further and further speed.

The Covenant response was lethargic, perhaps disbelieving or more likely amused at the sight of the broken human vessel limping from the skeletal clutches of the orbital graveyard, trailing scrap and corpses like the blood of a desperate animal in its final throes. A single ship pulled away from the flotilla to investigate, a CCS-Battlecruiser, which upon seeing no genuine threat from the visibly crippled human vessel, did not even deem it fit to raise shields. It did however launch a full array of boarding craft and seraphs, perhaps seeing some amusement to be had.

The spartan, with a series of commands input into the captain chair’s interface, turned the marathon’s prow towards his foe and activated what remained of the point defense array to little effect. The main gun of this ship had been slagged in its last battle, a fact that offered no alteration to his plans. He had no need for such tools of war, not for what was to come.

Chains of alternating light shot across the darkness as the handful of functional AA batteries unloaded what was left of their payloads, firing far out of effective engagement range as little more than a display in futility, one he knew would goad the sangheili captain. Despite their technological superiority, their overconfidence as a species was a well-known, crippling weakness when exploited properly.

As expected, the bulbous prow of the battlecruiser cleaved through the currents of space at greater speed, intending to come aside the audacious human ship that dared to challenge Covenant preeminence. No doubt to them this was merely an unanticipated game, a little sport to occupy themselves while their other forces finished their work down below.

Noble Six let them come, intentionally ensured the AA batteries would not hit their targets, and breathed new life into the engines., bidding his time with patience born of measured inevitability. The warped remnants of the ship’s superstructure, shuddered as multiple boarding craft slammed into its hull, disgorging a plethora of zealous warriors that would soon discover that there was no prey to hunt amongst the dead. Still he waited, silent and enduring, for the gratification he hoped he might finally feel before the end.

And then, in a single moment, as a thousand calculations at last shifted into place, he struck with speed and precision.

The trembling of the cruiser’s frame turned violent and explosive as he suddenly cut power to the engines, firing all of the remaining maneuvering thrusters on the starboard side. Already battered and broken, there was little resistance before the ship started to come apart. He could feel riveted plates buckle as they gave way under immense stress, and the decking under his feet warped and cracked, nearly tearing the captain’s chair from its mounting.

But thanks to the enduring work of UNSC engineers the ship only nearly prevented itself from tearing apart. And in the moment as the worst of the damage subsided, he put all remaining power into the fusion drives, and prepared to once more show the enemy the price of their unmatched arrogance.

He had calculated everything perfectly, the culmination of all his plans plunging like a lance into the heart of his enemy.

The spartan leaped from his seat and departed the bridge as fast as his legs could carry him away from the keel of the Covenant warship that was getting closer by the second. Rounding one of several corners along the passageway from the bridge to the stern, he came across a small party of boarders, a single elite and his grunt escorts.

The spartan sprinted past, his fist crashing against the sangheili’s ostensibly bewildered mandibles as he leaned into the turn. Disengaging the magnetized grounding in his greaves, he planted his boots firmly into the sidewall of the next corridor and launched himself down the stretch of hallway.

And then the two vessels impacted, and everything went black.

XX-XX-XX

Lumi awoke under duress, roused by raised voices and the very fact that the ground beneath her shuddered and bucked like a wild velithra. The female sangheili’s attempt to sit up was a dismal failure, as she instead hunched over and held a hand to her throbbing skull. The rapid trample of many pairs of hurried feet ushered her out of her confusion as she forced senses to reassert themselves.

Opening her eyes, she was not sure whether or not to regret the decision.

The interior of a Covenant vessel was familiar, but entirely unexpected given that her last memory had been on the once human held world. And the sense of urgency undertaken by the rush of shipboard personnel that passed by her, and the array of weapons clutched in their hands was quite alarming, even to her concussed faculties.

The young sangheili smacked the side of her head, bringing sudden clarity to the muffled speakers around her.

“…ower decks are crushed or venting atmosphere. And we have lost communication with Minor Ra’el and his scouting lance. Shipmaster Kelamee has reported a foreign life sign onboard. It is… human.”

“No… it is not human.”

Lumi froze upon that voice, recognized from many televised debates, and yet never heard in person. Nevertheless, for her, it was unforgettable. There was not a sangheili alive that did not know of Ju’das Rasumai, the greatest swordsman and warrior of their times. He was a legend amongst legends, a figure of such renown that not a single keep on sanghelios would ever openly stand against him. He was a born demon killer, their greatest weapon against the best the humans had to offer.

The female eased back in relief, even as she looked up to see the legend standing above her. She did not know where the demon had gone, but now that zealot marshal Rasumai himself had come forth, there was nothing for her to fear. He would make things right again.

She gazed upon the legend, his strapping figure bedecked in a special operations combat harness, and armed heavily with many tools of war. The great warrior turned from his conversation, centering his stern expression and battle worn features upon the young female as his fellow marshal departed in haste with an escort in tow.

His mandibles flexed, either in amusement or resignation as he spoke to her. “It would appear luck has favored you, young one. That or the gods, though I fear their voice has not been heard as of late.”

Lumi was speechless, her capacity for words arrested as she came face to face with one of her greatest idols. Instead she sat, half drawn from her reclined position, listening intently to words whose intent was beyond her ken.

She baulked in awe as the larger than life figure rested a hand upon her head to convey his departing words upon her. “Rest now young one and find shelter. Soon this shall be all over, for good or ill.”

She believed him, with fervent conviction and idealistic faith.

Whatever may come, he would save them.

XX-XX-XX

A thick haze of gunsmoke choked the corpse strewn corridors of the Covenant battlecruiser, the acrid scent of cordite and the saccharine smell of disinterred offal lingering over Noble Six’s most recent site of carnage as the spartan took a brief moment of respite to reload and rearm. He had a few minutes at most before they reorganized and sent the next wave in an attempt to dislodge him from his position, and each was more determined and organized than the last.

It was fortunate then, that this was simply a delaying tactic, as the idea of holding off the entire contingent of a CAS battlecruiser was rather ridiculous and bore no merit beyond a wild delusion. A single battlecruiser had the power and numbers to subjugate an entire planet, with thousands of battle hungry warriors housed in its internals. Against those kinds of numbers he was utterly disadvantaged, with or without his equipment and augmentations. Contrary to popular belief, spartans could not accomplish the impossible, merely the improbable. If he’d possessed any expectations of survival, going against the totality of a Covenant battlegroup was strictly out of the picture. Considering otherwise, this was to be the greatest triumph of his career.

Grabbing the armored collar of a sangheili relieved of a significant weight above the neck, he dragged the headless carcass across the length of the hall to the intersection he had made his stand, adding it to the increasing height and width of his rough-and-ready emplacement. The spartan waded through the blood without care, the fluid pooled up to his shins and possessing a rather unpleasant color as the varied hues intermixed and swirled below. Concentrating intently, he disregarded the irritating sloshing sound the liquid created as he arranged his battlements with an artisan’s eye for detail.

He’d have preferred sterner fortifications, piled sandbags or a solid concrete palisade, something more suited to the task than hastily layered bodies. But a craftsman had to work with the tools at hand.

Thankfully he needn’t endure the wait much longer, his machinations were in place, leaving him with the rare pleasure to admire his work. All that was left was to keep the enemy distracted, keep them from thinking about the marathon cruiser lodged into the guts of their warship, and stay alive long enough to enjoy the fireworks. It was the last part he was a little skeptical about.

Noble Six grimaced, the appearance of a stoic smirk curling the corner of his mouth as his motion tracker announced the arrival of the next assault. The spartan quieted his demons and crouched behind his cover, shouldering his rifle to conclude his last and greatest task, aware that no one would ever know. He, like the rest of Noble, would be hushed and forgotten, another filthy secret stashed under ONI’s dirty laundry, and that was an end he could be okay with.

_Sorry Emile… _The spartan’s grin soured into a wane smile as the first sangheili warrior appeared to lead the charge. He cut it to size both promptly and literally, scything its legs out from underneath it with a fusillade of 7.62mm FMJ. The alien dropped, screaming as its lifeblood flooded from the pair of stumps jutting below its waist. Six switched targets to its entourage of grunts and put them down before their small brains could even realize what was happening. The saurian still breathed, but he saw no reason to waste ammunition when there were more enemies than bullets. The corridor grew silent, but for the pitiful howls from the alien amputee writhing on the floor. Though it did not last long for the next group to charge in and start the cycle all over again.

The spartan sighed and prepared himself for the end.

_The likes of us were never meant to be remembered._

XX-XX-XX

Ju’das stepped off the lift into a scene of anarchy and could only shake his head in bitter resignation. The saurian marshal gained the first few steps into the corridor before pausing in an attempt to drink in the utter chaos and lack of discipline upheld by the Covenant’s finest. In the distance, a great length down the winding, spacious halls of the battlecruiser, he could hear the furious sounds of combat, the rapid staccato of a primitive human weapon, and the wraithlike pulse of energy rifles.

The zealot stepped aside as a trio of heavily armed minors thundered down from a sloped passageway to his left, joining the mass of warriors clogging the narrow intersection leading to what was undoubtedly a slaughter.

And he wondered, over the sounds of dying soldiers and the echo of shouts blinded by zealous hatred, how the Covenant had come to this, how they could have fallen so far from grace. Their creed had once stood for something noble, striving for an ideal that there was some grand purpose behind their existence, and to bring harmony and virtuous devotion to the galaxy. This war had been quick to crush the delusion. In the years he had not witnessed any divine intent guiding their hand, merely the covetous whims of sycophants and corrupt politicians, and it was his brothers that died to sustain this corpulent legacy.

The irony for Ju’das came in the realization that he found more honor in the humans’ resistance against extinction, than the questionable goals of his own people. There was little purer than a fight for survival, particularly one that had been as tenacious and spirited as the efforts of the humans. He had seen them make sacrifice after sacrifice, committing their warriors to hopeless last stands and condemnable maneuvers simply to buy time for their non-combatants. When faced with such selfless determination it was difficult to see himself as the hero of his story. Warriors with honor did not take the lives of innocents, nor should they derive pleasure from such reprehensible acts. Yet honor it seemed was a dated philosophy to the modern sangheili.

“Great Marshal!”

Thoughts of the dubious nature of the present forgone, Ju’das shifted his intent to the welcomed acquaintance of the stout creature that waddled up to greet him. Though seeing the little unggoy here at this particular location made him… uneasy.

“Minor Nipnup.” He returned the greeting kindly, raising his voice a fair margin to overcome the heightened noise of battle up ahead.

The young unggoy seemed smaller than usual, his squat frame hunched over under the weight of an emplaced weapon mount, the other member of his species behind him carrying the cannon itself. Nevertheless he displayed the same exuberance and eager to please nature that had first caught Ju’das’ attention and so enamored him with the stout but faithful unggoy.

The field marshal studied the guileless, cheerful disposition of his short statured friend and felt the beginning of a dark, cold feeling settle in his primary heart. “You intend to join the battle?”

The unggoy shrugged complacently, though the action seemed somewhat comedic with the heavy weight he bore on his shoulder. “Orders is orders.” He answered with humble simplicity. “Such is will of gods, as you say Great Marshal.”

Ju’das nodded silently, unable to find the resolve within to audibly agree with Nipnup’s answer. Not for the first time, and perhaps not for the last, he was of disagreeable sentiment. The sangheili mused for a brief interlude, before he made a decision that went against the very values of his religion and his society. He kneeled low to the height of the stout creature, placing a reassuring hand over the unggoy’s shoulder as he mustered his words.

“Perhaps so, but this day the gods have a different plan for you, young Nipnup. I have a task of immense import and you are the only one I can trust to see it done.”

“You speak true, Grand Marshall?” The unggoy asked hesitantly, the gleam of expectant optimism untarnished and hopeful in the eyes of the diminutive son of Balaho. “You have impor-tant task… for Nipnup?”

“I do, young warrior.” He assured the small creature, though his internals twisted and churned at the lie he forced from his mandibled jaws. As it was the first lie he ever told, he was disturbed at how easy it had been made. Nevertheless he would not see this fledgling being be led to a slaughter for a war he was too naïve and fervent to understand. This young, frail unggoy was the embodiment of all that was good about the Covenant and its values. Nipnup deserved a better fate than to be used and discarded. And perchance, so did others. “There is a young female of my species in the hanger above us. Find her and keep her safe until this crisis is averted.”

“Of course, Great Marshall!” The Unggoy spluttered reverently, carelessly discarding the mounting on his shoulder. It bounced once, before landing on the foot of the hapless individual behind him. What occurred next was a rapid exchange of high pitched barks and squeaks as they argued in their home language.

Though he did not wish to admit to himself, the interaction was amusing to watch and was a welcomed reprieve from his darkened thoughts. Ju’das ushered the stout creature and its companion along on their false assignment, content that he could at least do some good in these dour times.

Though, with Nipnup’s departure he was forced once more to contend with the predicament that awaited him. Through the discussion the sounds of battle had not lessened in ferocity. Down the corridor more of his brothers died fighting a beast that possessed no lack of determination and bore a righteous rage that might very well be deserved.

Heresy lay in consideration of such an admission. To validate the monster’s rage would be to admit responsibility to an incalculable extent of injustice imparted upon it and its species, to bring in to question the very nature of their religion. Yet he could not help but question the will of the gods, or perhaps more accurately, their instruments.

Ju’das decided with grave severity and a foreboding sense of inevitability… that this day he would serve the gods.

Not the prophets.

“Marshal Rasumai!”

The first to notice his approach was a young sangheili warrior perhaps no older than one solar cycle from adolescence, the bright blue of his untarnished combat harness further denoting him as a minor yet to earn his colors in battle. The unblooded’s eyes were slightly widened as he looked upon a figure he had only heard rumors of in his days as a youngling.

Ju’das passed him in silence.

Several others soon noticed his arrival, each offering reverent greeting, from the youngest warrior to the oldest veteran. Each was summarily, if politely dismissed, as he traveled down the corridor lined with wounded and fresh blood eager to earn glory. The cacophony of combat growing more intense with each passing step, he could feel the surety his presence provided, confident that he would bring them salvation from this calamity.

However, this time he did not come to wage battle against a foe. This time he had come to talk, and perchance more notably, to listen.

So it was, as he rounded the corner unto a familiar scene of hapless carnage and death, that he laid eye upon his foe for the third and final time. As he feared the abomination did not suffer its end without due compensation. Bodies lay piled in heaps with no regard to station or status, the non-porous alloy of the floor allowing a marsh-like quagmire of fluids and entrails to swell in the tide of butchery. The harsh discharge of human weaponry lingered in the air, above even the scent of blood, the sheer magnitude draping a thick cloud of smoke over the battleground.

First appearance spoke of a favorable exchange at the hands of the human, but a second glance was more telling. Even a warrior like the abomination could not repel such numbers forever. Much of the blood that coated its battle scarred and scorched combat harness was bright red as it seeped from the blackened cracks in its armor. Yet in spite of its injuries the human warrior had the remarkable temerity to stand tall, its posture unbroken and its tenacity unbowed. The demon clutched a rifle in steady gauntlets, the implacable visage of its faceplate marred by the jagged fracture split down the center. It turned its splintered gaze upon him, and drew its weapon forth, seemingly ignorant of the great harm aggrieved upon its person, ready to fight to its bitter conclusion.

Ju’das would admit, though only to him, that there was some satisfaction at seeing grievous harm inflicted upon his adversary. And though he wished heartily to strike it down in revenge for the dead, he was reminded that discretion was the better part of valor. After all, a wounded beast fought twice as hard. With a wave and a curt command, the next assault force withdrew, with significant reluctance.

“I would have words… demon.” He spoke slowly, raising his arms to show open palms as he stepped closer. The Covenant warriors at his behest seemed confused if the whispered utterings behind him were any indication. Yet his rank and prestige proved to be weighty enough to quell any sentiment of doubt. Trust was a valued resource, when placed in the proper hands.

The abomination’s reaction was equally dubious. Its weapon lowered from head to chest height, and he could feel its bloodlust lessen by the smallest of portions. It appeared ready to sell its life, but perhaps sensing the encroachment of its expiration, was at the least willing to entertain what it must have seen as an unlikely delusion.

_“Diplomacy?” _It hissed softly to itself in a dark, sallow voice that was one part amused and thrice more enraged at the lunacy of his request. _“This war has passed the chance for words.” _It snarled with a censorious scorn in its tone that was nearly as sharp edged as the blade it had used to cleave his throat on their last meeting.

The abomination radiated killing intent like the exposed coils of a primitive human reactor, and its weapon snapped upwards to fire. Ju’das remained unflinching, even as he heard the soldiers behind him ready to turn the small length of hallway into a warzone. Instead the zealot marshal watched patiently as his plan reached fruition.

The human, its bearing once proud and imperious, wilted as it staggered and collapsed to its knees. The fluid pooled around it, once a collage of varied color, now having taken a predominate shade of red as the warrior at last capitulated under the severity of its many accumulated injuries. No matter ones resolve or strength of character, this was a moment that surpassed mind over matter.

Time, unlike before, was now Ju’das’ ally.

It would do what no warrior of the Covenant had been able to.

“Diplomacy is not my intent.” He assured the abomination in a tone softened to in a way that might have almost been cordial curiosity, as he studied the human straining to keep its weapon leveled upon him even as the essence of life drained from its body. “I offer only to make your passing… peaceful. Consider this a professional courtesy, from one soldier to another.”

The demon snorted, the sound ejecting from its throat in a wet and gargled gasp that spoke of damage deep within. _“Never thought I’d meet an alien with a sense of humor.” _It rasped vulgarly. And though hostility was evident in its tone, Ju’das was startled to see it lower its weapon, the rifle slackening in its weakening grip.

It shrugged, allowing an unusually smug chuckle to erupt from battered lungs. _“Don’t matter anyways. You have lost, split lip.” _

Ju’das grimaced at the recognized insult created by the humans, but reined his irritation in favor of curiosity as he once more acknowledged the environment around him with a solemn wave. “True many have fallen, but I see no loss here.”

The reply he received was non-verbal but nonetheless alarming as it relinquished its weapon, the worn rifle disappearing into the spilled viscera with a loud splash as the abomination regarded instead the tactical machine interface on its forearm. Whatever it saw must have been significant, as all resistance and strength left its battered frame and the human sagged heavily in acceptance. _“Not long now.” _It spoke in a subdued, introspective tone that was to the sangheili’s confusion, turning its battle-scarred helm to match him stare-for-stare.

_“I suggest you make peace with your gods, sangheili. Consider this **my **professional courtesy.” _ With swift action the demon tore its helmet from its head, letting the armor piece roll from loosened fingers to join its fallen weapon. The visage of the human was one of youthful rage, pale and bloodied, with eyes that burned with unshrouded fury. The male spat at Ju’das feet, his lips curled into a quivering snarl. _“From one monster to another.”_

Ju’das was, for the first time in many long years, wholly surprised. This abomination was… young, even for the relatively short lifespan of a human. The marshal was not well versed enough to guess age with any reasonable accuracy, but he was competent enough to know that no creature of such aptitude and ruthlessness should be so fresh of face. The hairs growing upon the human’s pastel appearance, and the scars that spoke of violent conflict, seemed out of place on a visage that spoke of perhaps two decades of short life.

Were all the greatest warriors of the humans’ just younglings? Was it really this whelp that had killed so many of the Covenant’s best? That had beaten him in single combat and even now was immersed amid a field of corpses? Ju’das stood amongst the broken and the dead, what was clear evidence of this undeniable certainty, and struggled to accept the truth that had been given.

Ju’das watched, as finally, the human fell. And he found no comfort, no satisfaction, in this long awaited resolution.

There was only silence, but for the sopped thump of the human’s armor upon the bloodied deck.

Behind him his warriors cheered, and a great raucous revelry arose in the demise of the last defender of this world and the recognition of another total victory over the unclean, and one more step upon the path. The sangheili instead looked upon the motionless form of a child pressed into service to stave off the threat of annihilation, a life sold to oppose a genocidal crusade of intolerant piety.

Ju’das realized, for the first time in his long life, a life served with unquestionable belief and righteous faith, that his was a hollow victory.

And then his consciousness vanished in a flash of screaming light.


	4. The Best Laid Plans

Death was not what Noble Six had expected. At first it had been darkness and oblivion, and for the briefest moment he had felt… peace, a solemn acceptance of dark stagnation. The spartan reckoned he wouldn’t mind an eternity of this. Certainly it was preferable to the oft analogized hereafter of fire and brimstone he had at first anticipated. Given his history he had no other expectation. Yet it seemed this was not to be the conclusive end he had awaited. As quickly as he came upon this sense of serene solemnity, it was taken and thrown upside down in a kaleidoscopic surge of relentless assault on his returning senses.

The incoherent screams of alarm klaxons and the searing flash of emergency lighting was a rude and unexpected awakening for the surviving member of Noble Team as he suddenly regained consciousness with a rushed intake of breath, and a hacking cough as he expunged bloodied phlegm from battered lungs. Fresh adrenaline surged through his body as the spartan-III bolted upright from his sprawl in the blood and gore left in the wake of his supposed death, bewildered at the blurred corridor of the Covenant battlecruiser and the mangled dead. If still doubtful of his continued life, the deep ache he felt from his wounds and the presence of the slaughtered and very deceased aliens around him was sufficient enough to reaffirm the realization that he was still amongst the living.

The spartan fell forward as his fatigued system flooded with fresh chemicals, wiping the polychromatic slurry of variegated viscera from his face as he sent a gauntlet rummaging through the carnage for his helmet. It was with great effort that he forced down the bubbling mass of questions he felt thundering at the precipice of his attention. His attempted suicide had been abstained by his best guess, though the reason for such an abstention was as of yet beyond his discovery. Now was not the time for such distraction the spartan decided, clearing his vision with one final drag of a gauntlet across his eyes to fully reveal a scene of utter devastation.

The corridor, dark but for the flashing emergency lights, was scattered with bodies. Dead in all aspects, but a few he hazard might have only been rendered unconscious as he had been. He imagined that upon waking, they would not be nearly as calm and coherent as himself. The idea of a not inconsiderable number of ill-tempered and fanatical aliens regaining awareness while he was so plainly disadvantaged was not a pleasant consideration. In that he thought of the kukri sheathed to his left pauldron, but there was considerable risk of rousing the currently cataleptic throng if he tried any knife work. And in his current condition, he had doubts in regards to his survival. True that had not been a cause for concern for him previously, after all death had been the intent of this entire spectacle. Yet now he was not so eager for an end, at least not until he was able to figure out this new curiosity.

So it was, burdened by such grave contemplations, that the spartan felt a surge of relief as his probing fingers brushed against a hollow, semispherical mass in front of him. Grabbing it by the rim he picked up his helmet and turned it over to empty. A thick deluge of unpleasant fluid spilled from his helm and after a moment of consideration of its wet interior and the visor now adorned in a bold fracture splitting down the center, the spartan forewent his initial plan and secured it to the mag holster at his waist.

He found his MA37 not a foot away from him, the butt of the rifle’s stock barely visible in the pool of fluids collected by the sloped delineations in the deck. Gripping the weapon by its rugged frame, he pointed the barrel toward the deck and gave it a rough whack with an open palm, watching as a spurt of blue blood spewed from its rifled maw. The spartan brought it close to examine, and after quickly cleaning the charge handle and loading a round, he aimed at the closest body and pulled the trigger.

The loud report of the weapon in the confines of the ship’s corridor echoed through the silence, a reassuring and welcomed sound as he shouldered the battered, sodden, and yet still reliable instrument of war. Say what one might about utilitarian manufacturers, the reliability of their product was indisputable. Human weaponry was designed much like their vehicles and starships, and could be prescribed to three modest schools of thought, simple, reliable, and powerful. And while the Covenant may have had a fixation for pretentious artistry with their bulbous starships and sculpted tools of war, and while their equipment was undoubtedly of an alien sophistication currently unattainable by human technology, he’d rather kill his enemies with weapons forged by human hands.

The act had a fairly theatrical poetry that he rather enjoyed, made the task of slaying mankind’s enemies that much more… satisfying. After all, there was nothing quite like witnessing what hollow point munitions could do to the varied biology of Covenant species.

But such thoughts were wandering and not fit for consideration given the nature of his immediate situation, and the spartan was quick to banish them in an effort to focus on the present.

Now, should the situation escalate even further than it already had, the odds would at least be somewhat impartial. The spartan brushed a gauntlet across his tactical harness as he lurched heavily to his full height, counting his remaining magazines and diverting a small portion of his mental processes to generating a hypothesis on his predicament.

B312 scanned the peculiarly contoured alien architecture of the battlecruiser’s hallway and sent his mind to task in attempting to unveil just exactly why it was he remained alive. The oscillating shriek of the klaxons told him that _something _had occurred, whether that was a result of his plan, or an as of yet calculated variable, was a deduction that was too prepubescent to be forming. If it had happened as calculated, if this was the result of the makeshift bomb he had crafted from the cruiser’s damaged fusion reactor and Shaw-Fujikawa drive, then by all means they should all be very, very dead. The Covenant battlecruiser, and himself by extension, should have been reduced to little more than free-floating atoms in solar winds.

If Noble Six could be confident of only one thing, it was that an event had most certainly transpired, and whatever it was had triggered unintended consequences. The spartan-III stood in the stillness of the alien corridor, the silence broken only by the rough interjection of emergency sirens, and wondered just how things had changed. He certainly could not stay where he was, he was after all still aboard an enemy ship full of fanatical religious aliens. It would only be a matter of course before he encountered ones that were not incapacitated. How he could change this fact however, was a solution beyond what he could presently devise.

Deliberating heavily on his next course of action, he detected movement in his vicinity. The spartan drew his weapon upon the figure struggling to reach the top of a nearby pile of bodies. Disbelief was the core of his emotions as he watched the battered but somehow still animated zealot field marshal drag himself to his feet, or so at least until several others boiled over.

The spartan struck immediately.

With a bullet-quick lunge, he grabbed the marshal by the collar of his combat harness and pinned him to the wall, spreading his mandibles wide with the barrel of the assault rifle shoved into his mouth. The spartan reflexively squeezed the trigger, full prepared and ready to splatter the wall with alien grey matter. But it was his immense discipline that prevented him from actually discharging his weapon.

Well that of course, and the influx of panicked words that suddenly emerged from the sangheili’s comm unit in a broken garble of corrupted static.

_“Marsh… umai… what i… …r status? Are …still …bat effecti… …? Report…. …. crash…. surface…. world…. .assi ……. ar… under assault….. unknown…. ….. determined…. be… … hostile… situation untenable...”_

The message repeated, in an even more broken and incomprehensible state, until eventually it petered off into distorted static. The spartan remained unmoving, attempting to decode the gibberish into some form of serviceable intelligence. Meanwhile his prisoner was silent, although he was uncertain whether or not to attribute that to the alien’s unusual patience or the weapon currently lodged in his mouth.

As he pondered, the spartan felt his helmet vibrate at his waist, a moment of indecision passed before he shifted his body, keeping his rifle in position and using his left shoulder to keep the alien pinned in place as he grabbed his helmet and tipped it forward to read the flickering Heads Up Display.

What he then noticed was sufficient to give him considerable pause, his motion tracker surging with activity. And the little dots were neither the bright yellow of friendly IFF signatures nor the deep red of hostile sensor pings. He studied the swarm of white, anomalous signal returns meandering the narrow corridors towards their position and began to think. Judging by his calculation there was perhaps a minute before the unregistered IFF’s reached visual and auditory range.

The appearance of such an irregularity, when measured with the recent string of inconsistencies that had been occurring so rapidly, was enough of a warning for the spartan to reevaluate his priorities. 

Now, Six felt in an uncharacteristic moment of reluctant clarity, that for the first time in many years this was not the hour for his usual conduct. Something was at play here, a developing scenario that his instincts told him had changed the field of play. And perhaps it was the barest notion of insubstantial tolerance he felt towards this alien that proved to be the initial detractor. He was, after all, the most persistent sangheili Noble Six had ever encountered, and the first not to continuously spew religious madness from mandibled jaws. Or perhaps more realistically, it was his understanding that something fundamentally strange had just occurred, and the laws of reality as he knew them might not be the same as they had been before he had awoke.

Nevertheless the spartan’s glare was hateful and cruel as he matched the shark-like eyes of the sangheili warrior that stared silently in turn, his expression remarkably calm considering the weapon jammed down his throat. The greater part of him wanted this monster to die, if for no other reason but the satisfaction it would give him. However, during training he had been often recognized as the greatest nonlinear logistician in his company, both during practice ops and academic courses. In those days of endless drills and brutal exercises he had learned a great deal about himself and what he was willing to do to ensure victory. And since then B312 had figured himself a survivor, by any and all means necessary.

It was true as well that he had no qualms with death, and if it was in the best interest of humanity he would not hesitate to meet his end. And for a moment, he thought that time had come, but the current evolution of events made the thought of his demise… intolerable. He could not die yet, not at least until he knew what was happening, till he had answers for his unspoken questions. And if his discovers probed to be actionable, something he could use, then he would prioritize returning to command, however that might have been possible.

Meanwhile, as he debated on his merits of his increasingly detestable prospects, the tracker flickered brighter in warning that soon his decision would have to be made regardless of his personal opinions, and he could hear movement in the corridor far to his left, the cautious pace of armored footsteps steadily advancing upon their position.

And in that moment, the spartan decided that he was no longer prepared to die.

_“Do you want to die?” _The spartan asked bluntly, waiting to see if his alien antagonist would share the same sentiment, neither possessing the time nor patience for the verbose rhetoric this particular alien seemed to enjoy. The spartan then waited, finger clutched around the trigger, until after an exasperatingly long stretch of inertness, the sangheili warrior slowly shook his head in the negative. B312 paused, contemplating the absolute irrationality of his decision and the sanity of his intellectual acuities, before reluctantly withdrawing his weapon from a creature whose species he had hated for more than ten years of bloodstained conflict.

His stomach recoiled at the very _concept _of sparing the alien before him, what was a being that propagated a genocidal campaign against humanity, responsible for the deaths of an incalculable number of human lives. Yet he was not so blind as to ignore the truth that he was only skirting a thin line between life and death, a line that was weakening as seconds passed. Pain was something he could ignore, a constant that had been rendered into an unimportant triviality for him, however the slight haze around his vision, and the weakness in his hands as he held his rifle told an undeniable truth.

Right now he had become a liability to his own success.

The mindless chatter of a grunt suddenly erupted from the corridor to their left, the alien babbling in its coarse language. Its tone seemed inquisitive, bearing the inherent confusion of its species.

And then it screamed.

The spartan flinched imperceptibly as the corridor erupted into violent sound, inundated with a sharp _snap-fizzle _he’d never heard before but instinctively recognized as the discharge of some form of unidentified weapon system. Silence preceded, broken then by several voices erupting into laughter. And then they spoke, in a lilting, foreign tongue, and Noble Six’s decision was made.

The spartan fought viciously to restrain his frustration as he reached down and shoved a blood-soaked plasma rifle into the saurian beast’s four fingered clutches, the act of arming his greatest adversary a cruel irony he certainly did not savor. The temptation in that moment to unload the weapon at point-blank range was… noteworthy, but it was to his immense regret that discipline won the day. He did not have to like it to accept it. And if he could use the damned alien then he would stomach the blow to his humanity, whatever remained. Survival was his prerogative, and so long as that goal was achieved he could endure his aversion.

The sangheili looked down at the item forced upon him, his twisting jaws whirling into what was perhaps a contemplative mein, before his grip solidified and he offered deferential nod at the towering spartan. Good. It seemed that the creature recognized their situation and was willing to allow survival to take precedence over personal opinion.

As satisfied as he was ever likely to be from a situation that was so utterly fucked as to be preposterous, Noble Six retreated from the alien to put space between them, and gestured for the hulking creature to take front. Regardless of his suspect sanity, the spartan was not so foolish as to place the damned thing at his back.

The alien nodded once more, seeing the wisdom of silence and signaled that they both withdraw to the mouth of the hall behind them, where they might wait and see the approaching party from a better position.

The concept of taking tactical advice from a sangheili he had already tried to kill on two separate occasions was a novel one, and the spartan pondered for a moment before ultimately agreeing, following after the zealot and trying to resist the urge to billet a round in the back of his exposed skull. He did smirk however, as the elite paused briefly before utilizing the piled corpses of its brethren as cover. Taking position further back and slightly to the left, Noble Six donned his helmet after a moment of reluctant thought, ignoring the repellently slick feeling of the advantageously placed padding as he reconnected its auxiliary battery to his Mjolnir’s fusion reactor. The stutter of the HUD was then wiped away in the surge of power, restoring his supplementary combat systems with the soft trill of booting software.

He frowned when, as the tertiary HUD elements connected, his Mjolnir’s shields did not join the listed series of reactivated systems. A curt glance at his armor did not reveal any serious damages that might have been responsible, which was both reassuring, and problematic. He was not exactly in a position to strip his gear and effect repairs, and he had no idea when next, if ever, that he might expect to receive such an opportunity. This left him in an even less savory position, and the spartan had to school his bubbling irritation in order to focus on more prevalent concerns.

The intersecting corridor in front of him and his reluctant companion flickered with new radiance as several separate beams of white light pierced through the crimson hue of the emergency lighting. The voices grew in volume, until distinct speakers could be heard, and as before, their speech was foreign, oddly lilting and yet somewhat… animalistic.

The sangheili in front of him crouched lower upon hearing, rifle readied in steady palms, and the spartan joined his preparedness, noting that whatever they were saying was not being translated by his Mjolnir’s operating system. This meant, alarmingly enough, that they spoke in no recorded Covenant dialect, and study of the elite’s response revealed that he did not recognize it either.

That alone was enough to trigger several alarm bells in the spartan’s head, joining the cacophony that had been ringing since he came upon this madness. If he had been unsure of his rationality before, now his soundness of mind was all but contested by uncertainty. Nevertheless B312 remained silent and calculative as the first of the unknown force rounded the corner, his VISR system polarizing to cut through the bright luminary of the leading figure. And as he made out the outline, he was… confused.

The armored profile of the being was unnervingly human, even the segmented plate structure of the armor was somewhat recognizable. Unlike Covenant species, there was a distinct overlap between whatever creature this was, and the unmistakable framework of the human form. Yet before he could draw any hesitant conclusions, something flicked at its rear and all sense of normalcy shattered.

A thick protrusion weaved idly from its sprouted position at the creature’s lower back, a tail the spartan eventually realized in weary hindsight, and after a moment of weighty skepticism. What features this new being might have possessed were hidden underneath an elongated red helmet with a reflective black visor, but whatever they may have been, Noble Six knew they would undoubtedly be as alien as the four mandibled jaw structure of his newest and most reluctant companion.

The spartan watched as, after a quick glance about the corridor, it barked a terse sentence, presumably to its cohorts who then filed in shortly after in a hurried lack of discipline that might have disgusted Noble Six if he had not been so focused on the weapons brandished by these new arrivals. Once more he was surprised, more so however with the continued familiarity. The rifle was… not unusual, its frame irrefutably similar to the weapon he held, although with a short cut stock and no visible input for a magazine or recognizable ammunition type.

Like the first of their kind, they wore a seemingly universal armor permutation, which was not so much a set of heavy plates over a uniform as a dedicated hardsuit not dissimilar to what he had seen in some ONI black projects and in ODST battle dress uniforms in the early years of the war, before supply had been unable to meet demand and less impressive options had to be considered. While interesting, that was not as disquieting as when he noticed that a few of their number did not possess tails, or did, but were of varying length and thickness, insinuating that there was more than one species present. The idea that he had stumbled across another multi-species hegemony was a rather sour one to stomach.

Almost immediately, a rapid fire dialogue erupted between them as they took in the wholesale slaughter. And as they bickered, B312 began to plan, though his thoughts were conflicted by the unknowability of the situation. Judging from the audible demise of a grunt before their arrival, he could assume some animosity between this new faction and the Covenant. But drawing such a conclusion was hurried and little more than wild extrapolation at best. The zealot marshal, judging from his intense stare and initial reaction, did not seem to recognize these new contenders for the spartan’s ever expanding list of adversaries and Noble Six was uncertain as to whether to be amused or concerned about this turnabout.

Regardless of his opinion, this presented itself as a problem. At the moment he and the elite went unnoticed as the armored creatures examined the once embattled corridor, studying the bodies and rummaging through the assorted weapons and items left scattered after the fact. But there was no telling how long they would be overlooked. Nor could he be certain that this was the only foreign party aboard the battlecruiser. It was likely, from conjecture formed by what little information he had scrounged so far, that the ship could infested by these new aliens.

A sharp blast and flash of green light forced the spartan to duck low, thinking that they had been discovered and he readied to make his stand. Yet as he readied his weapon and brought it to bear, he found his worry to be unfounded.

One of their number, seemingly the first that had entered, took a step toward the molten hole it had just punched into the wall and warbled some unknowable sentence in a clearly impressed tone as it experimentally weighed the cooling plasma pistol in its left hand. It turned then, brandishing the weapon towards its companions and chattering in a rapid-fire diatribe of indecipherable gibberish. 

Its fellows crowded around it, murmuring at the flaunted device, before hurriedly dispersing to acquire their own from the wide diversity of armaments lying in the bloodshed, callously shifting the bodies of the dead in their quest to acquire a toy of their own.

The spartan felt something shift at his side, and it was attributed only to his superhuman reflexes that he was able to catch hold of the sangheili warrior’s neck before he charged out and revealed their position. Already weakened by his injuries, it was with monumental effort that he subdued the enraged elite without alerting the looting creatures with the violent clamor of abused metal. In that regard he had the klaxons to thank for masking the brief nature of their scuffle.

B312, aware of the immediate need for sound discipline, unsheathed the kukri he had taken from Noble Four and pressed it hard against the alien’s throat in an unquestionable gesture. The intent behind his actions was clear. Regardless of his vulnerability traveling alone, he had no qualms with opening the damned thing’s throat right here and now if it jeopardized his survival.

Once more his doubt surged as he questioned the elite’s existence and its utility to his. Thus far it was proving far more trouble than it was worth. Better to kill it now, he supposed with an unacted shrug as he prepared to sanction the finishing blow.

“Please…”

A hoarse voice whispered underneath him as he readied himself for the act.

“I do not yet wish to die.”

The spartan paused, the curvature of the kukri’s etched blade cutting into the hide-like skin of the elite’s throat, and he looked down at the somber countenance of his foe through a shattered visor. There was something in its eyes, a comprehending clarity that struck a chord somewhere inside him.

Slowly, jerkily, the spartan pulled his blade away and removed his knee from the elite’s chest. He sheathed the knife and sluggishly paced back, a flicker of a memory ghosting across his consciousness as he watched the alien rise to his feet, offering a tentative air of silent gratitude.

_Please…._

_I don’t want to die….._

The translucent impression of familiar images danced behind his eyes before B312 forced the retentions down into the abyss of his unwanted memories, slamming the walls of his iron discipline into place and forcing himself to focus on the present. The spartan cuffed the elite on the shoulder, flicking his helmet to emphasize the empty hall behind them. Right now confrontation was inadvisable, and with the new objective to reach the nearest hanger, they need not yet provoke hostility.

After all, something told the spartan that soon enough they would both have their fill of bloodshed. All that remained to be seen in his eyes, was whether or not the field marshal would be on opposing sides.

For the sake of retaining some kind of normality in this increasingly incomprehensible mess he had found himself in, he hoped the damned alien would make that mistake.

XX-XX-XX

When Lumi returned to the waking world, it was with a keen sense of irritable familiarity. The female sangheili was growing rather tired of this apparent pattern and wondered as she sat up, how many times it would be before something in her head stopped working right.

And as she came to, upon the sight of several bickering unggoy standing over her, she questioned whether or not that had already transpired.

“I think we run yes?” One suggested nervously, the diminutive creature twitching timidly as it looked about the cavernous hanger. The crackle of weapons fire lit the air, the familiar pulse of Covenant weaponry combating the strange fizzle of something she could not yet identify.

The vast room was not as Lumi remembered, many ships had been torn from their cradles to lay in twisted heaps, with bodies interspaced between, their forms similarly contorted and broken as they lay unmoving. Yet, what perhaps was more alarming even over the devastation, was the warm yellow glow that had overtaken the purplish hue of the light crystals in their mountings, a harsh intruding light that shone in from the direction of the energy barriers that separated them from the harshness of space, or would have if not for the unsettling interpolation of natural light.

“No! Great Marshal entrusted this impor-tant task to Nipnup! Nipnup not break oath.” 

The sangheili scientist, now standing, fought a bout of nausea as she took in the dramatically altered environment. Her sudden rise unnoticed by the preoccupied, squabbling methane breathers, she shaded her eyes from the intruding light and listened.

She could hear the cacophony of conflict and pinpointed the source, of all places, to be worryingly close, although it was impossible to make out exactly where over the loud arguing of the unggoy. Lumi stepped away, leaving them behind as she searched for the source of the intruding noise, wandering far away as she honed in on the disturbance. As she drew near Lumi was just able to discern distinct sounds from the clamor, before the answer itself came screaming at her.

Lumi blinked as a bright red light traced across her peripheral, coalescing into a pearlescent beam of rubicund energy that flew right over her shoulder and slammed into the hull of a phantom still hovering in its moored grav field. The high powered lance of energy punched through its nanolaminate plating and gutted the shuttle from front to back in a luminescent detonation, the overpressure of the explosion throwing the young sangheili to the floor as a gout of purplish flame erupted from the transports side doors. Although frozen by the initial surprise, she was quick to spur herself to action in a scramble to get away from the now falling wreckage as it listed out of its containment field.

She barely escaped from under the tilting beast of metal as it slammed into the deck at her heels, chasing her off with a rapid pop of secondary explosions. Yet there was no reprieve as in her blind haste she collided with a small figure, falling over the unsuspecting unggoy in a graceless heap.

“Ah, there you is!” The little creature screeched happily in broken common as it waddled over and gently grabbed her by the shoulder. “Nipnup was to thinking that he had lost you, but gods seeming favor Nipnup today!” It continued to chatter at the concussed female as he and another arriving member of his species began to drag her behind the wreck of another phantom although thankfully this one was not rippling with fire and explosions.

“Nipnup was going to say, it too dangerous to be wandering.” The unggoy chided the female sangheili, who even propped against the warped prow of a fallen transport ship, still loomed over its diminutive stature. “Many enemies outside, _very angry_, like buzzing Mud Wasps, zipping and zapping all about.”

“Enemies? Outside?” Lumi groaned in confusion as she tried to piece her thoughts back together after the phantom nearly blew them apart.

“Yes, enemies. Not human, but still _very _mad. Shipmaster say they new, say nothing make sense, not stars, not planet, say to protect ship above all else. But Nipnup have impor-tant task from Great Marshal. Nipnup protect you!” He declared proudly, with a thump of a fist against his chest.

“Protect me? Great Marshal?” The words of an unggoy were hard to understand at the best of times, even more so now with all this _noise_. With an exasperated huff of frustration, she pushed away from the nattering unggoy and their nonsensical words. Her thoughts still bounced about in her head, disorganized and fleeting, unable to knit together long enough to form a coherent string of consciousness.

She looked outwards, towards where the energy barriers should have been, but were not. And she could finally see the drastic extent of their situation. The exuberant glow was indeed the byproduct of a yellow dwarf star that shone brightly above the gaping maw of the battlecruiser’s main hanger section. The barriers were down, allowing as she could now see, the noise of outside conflict to be heard.

Lumi was able to just make out the uninterrupted canopy of a far off tree line, and as her attentions drew inward she could see a wasteland of uprooted plants and dirt, her analytical mind recognizing the wake of an orbital-to-atmospheric crash landing. Though, in truth it would not take anyone of significant intelligence to deduce the result. That was not so much her concern as the visible deployment of infantry and armor located outside the ship’s hull, exchanging fire with an unseen force taking shelter in the jungle terrain.

That was her focus.

Not human, she recalled as the unggoy said, a possible reality considering the rare distribution of energy weapons in previous theaters. It was largely recognized that human technology had not progressed to the extent where large scale deployment of thermodynamic weaponry was feasible. And no self-respecting covenant force would dain to use such primitive tools, not since their mastery over plasmic matter.

Primitive, but more advanced than human technology she noted with concern as a trio of particularly vibrant lances of energy erupted from the jungle and gutted the housing of a Type-26 Assault Gun Carriage, or less verbosely, a wraith as the humans called it. Oft she preferred their simplistic naming conventions. Regardless of its extensive nomenclature, the onslaught of focused thermal energy had only moderate difficulty in piercing the mighty Covenant war machine. While the first shot was flattened and absorbed by the nanolaminate armor, the second and third were able to compound on the same point of contact and breach the crew housing.

The metal beast floundered under its mortal wound, toppling heavily to its left as power cut from its systems and the tank belched thick acrid smoke into the air. She watched in awe, as the vehicle plunged into the dirt of this alien world, casting a great spray of upturned soil before its propulsion drive overloaded and vaporized a small kig-yar phalanx, scattering body parts and molten metal for meters in all directions.

“Young Miss, is not safe.” The most commanding of the unggoy muttered anxiously as it waddled over and tugged on her suit sleeve. “We must be getting you to safety.”

While her profession might have involved walking battlefields to examine the technology of the Covenant’s foes, she’d never been on one that was… active.

Seeing such callous death traded with such flagrant violence…

Lumi could not summon the words or thoughts to describe her feelings. She could remember the eagerness with which she listened to the stories of old warriors visiting her family’s keep, often from a distance as such words were not proper in the presence of young females. Their tales had been of the beauty of battle, the pride of facing against worthy foes.

There was no glory or battle hymns, all she saw was horrid death and all she could hear were the screams of the dying and the harsh, guttural commands of sangheili war marshals as they directed the defense.

This… this was madness.

XX-XX-XX

Nipnup looked upon the muddied field of battle, unto the mindless barbarity of war, and sighed heavily to himself. He found no horror or fear in what was his gods-given profession. Unlike his brothers he was not afraid to die. If his purpose was to be sacrificed as a pawn, then he had resolved to the best pawn the gods could ever ask for. He would dedicate his very existence to proving the other species of the Covenant wrong. He would not snivel and cower like a weakling. Too many of his kin had fallen to such ignoble ends. He would show the filthy kig-yar that the unggoy were not just cannon fodder, and he would prove to the sangheili the worthiness of the natives of Balaho.

The Great Marshal, he saw worth in Nipnup, the only one of his kind that had ever bothered to see past his poor education and simple mannerisms. And for that the little unggoy was prepared to die for him.

So, the mission to oversee a young female seemed rather lackluster in comparison. Yet if it would make the Marshal happy, then Nipnup would do his best to see it through to the end.

The diminutive unggoy waddled close and reached up once more, this time firmly grabbing hold of the numbed female’s sleeve. “Come… come…” He urged resignedly, leading her away from the sight and deeper into the relatively safe depths of the hanger. “Nipnup will protect you, he not fail The Great Marshal.”

“Who is this _Great Marshal_ you keep jabbering about?” The sangheili female demanded heatedly, though she allowed herself to be corralled by the small creature.

The unggoy endured her ire placidly. He understood that this was her first time seeing the truth of war, and so he did not take offense at her petulance. She was young, brought up with stories of glory and martial pride. He had also been raised with such false testament. And he remembered his first battle well. It had been nothing like the stories told to him by his deacon. He could still hear the ragged breathing and numerous chattering of his blood-kin as they shuffled into the assault ship under the harsh gaze of their sangheili minder.

And he would never forget the hot lash of blood on his face as he watched brothers that had hatched from his nest, gunned down by the fire and fury of human retaliation as they were corralled into the pitiless maw of their weapon emplacements. And it had been in that moment, as the burning sting of primitive munitions lodged into his side, that he realized they had been used, tossed carelessly into a fortified position simply because they had been deemed to have no other purpose than to exhaust the supplies of their enemy.

It had been the Great Marshall that had pulled him from death, away from the ruthless barrage of human death dealing. And even though he knew that the Marshal did not remember the name of the unggoy he had pulled from the fire, Nipnup would never forget the one who saved him.

“Great Marshal is name Ju’das Rasumai.” The unggoy spouted proudly. After the battle he had made sure to learn the name of his savior, and even as his sangheili commander beat him for his impudence for demanding of a superior officer, he branded the name of his hero into his heart. He had spent hours in the communal quarters rehearsing the name so that he could speak it fluently, although he would never dare utter it in his presence. This was the first time he had ever spoken the name in the company of another being.

“You mean to say, that your Great Marshal is _the _Ju’das Rasumai?” She asked quietly, her voice shadowed by the faintest tone of disbelief. “The one who had slain the human demon of _Polymous_? Who singlehandedly secured the allegiance of the kig-yar pirate queens? …Who masterminded the defeat of The Banished in numerous battles during the skirmish of the Aleian Rift? _That _Ju’das Rasumai?

“Yep.”

“And he asked _you_ to protect _me_?”

“Yep, yep!” 

Nipnup nodded eagerly.

The sangheili female’s mandibles flexed in consternation, no doubt in awe at his pure awesomeness and at his worth to the greatest of the greats. A sense of accomplishment rose within him and he took a deep drag of methane from his breathing harness, chest inflating with pride at her unintended reminder.

The Great Marshal had given him a task and no matter the obstacle, he would not fail.

XX-XX-XX

War… an ancestral constant of society, the perpetual variable absolutely necessary for the advancement of civilization. The greatest reforms and most powerful of technologies were born of the conflagration, conflict the propagator of progress. And its foundries were fueled by the common people. It was a cruel mistress, no amount of sacrifice be it by the multitude or the individual, was enough to sate its depravity. And not even a person with the strongest will could outmaneuver inevitability.

The Empire was never going to win the First Lylat War. That undeniable truth had been recognized in the many detailed and lengthy reports submitted by the various military analysts, financial advisors and intelligence operatives in the years preceding its instigation. They simply could not match the increasingly vertical production capacity or the vast personnel pool of their ancient enemy. The math had never been in their favor. The feds had more planets, more shipyards, more leaders, more soldiers, more… everything.

They had been repeatedly cautioned that any attempt at combating the growing power of the Lylatian Federation would result in nothing more than a protracted defeat.

Yet it was that one word that they had been looking for.

Protracted.

After years of repression, left to fester and die in the toxic wastes of a failing prison colony, left to endure the remorseless whims of cancer and the ungodly rate of infant mortality. To live on poisoned water and withered crops and watch as your children wasted away in front of you…

No.

They might not have victory, but they were more than satisfied with bloody defeat. They would make the feds pay for the sins of their fathers.

To General Bloodmaw the war had been a way to strike back at those who had condemned his people to unending sorrow, to make them pay for the children they had stolen from him and the loss of his wife, a wonderful female, kind and beautiful, yet unable to tolerate the unrelenting callousness of their reality. Even if took a thousand of his own soldiers, he would ensure that even _one _of those bastards from the federation might wake up one day without a father, or a son, mothers or daughters, it did not matter, so long as they might understand the depth of his loss.

During the First Lylat War none of the Empire’s soldiers had been fighting to win.

They had been fighting to hurt.

And after their eventual defeat, after their armies had been bloodied, and their fleets shattered, they disappeared, to lick their wounds and make preparations. Years passed as they scavenged, bartered, and seized whatever resources they could find, martialing their forces in wait for new opportunity. Right now they were scattered, spread across a dozen worlds and countless hideouts throughout known and unknown space. Their fleets parceled in quiet sectors and their armies dispersed amid major population centers. The Remnant learned where the Empire had failed. They might not be able to defeat The Federation in a contest of brute strength, but there were many other ways to fight a war.

Every day they grew stronger, joined by people escaping the harsh environment of their homeworld, and even defectors disillusioned with Federation rule. This was, after all, not a time where they could afford to be meticulous with their prospects. They had moles in fed government, feeding them Intel on mothball yards and old bunkers filled with military surplus. They converted, gathering the sick and the destitute, they provided care, they fed and nurtured, securing in full the continuation of their work.

Bloodmaw did not bother to hold lofty expectations of ever really defeating The Federation, certainly not now. Their military leader was far too shrewd and experienced, cut and molded by the first war and honed to a sharper edge against the efforts of his insurgency. Such a fine tactician, with the quality and quantity of resources at his disposal, would be a hard foe to counter. And there was of course the Starfox team to consider, a mercenary company only in name, with an unshakable allegiance to Federation leadership.

They were no more mercenaries then he was a father.

As far as he was concerned they were just soldiers with higher wages and circumspect autonomy.

Without their interference he could have been confident in the possibility that they might be able to turn the tide. But through the years his undercover assets had been vigilant in their duties, and the reports they submitted were… less than favorable. Starfox’s piloting skills were legendary, renowned far and wide as being the best pilots in the entire Lylat sector. And he was not so prideful as to ignore the reality, despite its fantastical nature. It was easy to question how a handful of pilots could possibly be as credible a threat as they were, but he had seen the material, spent countless hours watching and thinking and planning. There was an… art to their flying, a level of coordination and effortless synergy that seemed almost supernatural. 

Alone they were a considerable threat to everything he had worked to build.

Starfox, with the resources and leadership of the Federation presented to him an insurmountable obstacle.

And now there was… this.

The remnant general studied the holo-table nestled deep inside his underground fortress on Fortuna, hidden from orbital scanning technology by the dense stratum of an unexploited copper deposit. The tunnel network was extensive, spanning more than a hundred kilometers under Animus, the world’s largest, and most tectonically stable continent. It had taken months of work and thousands of hours of labor, even with the most modern excavation equipment and the latest in plasma drilling. Past the first layer of tunnels designed to be indiscernible from natural formations, and under a false stalagmite with a keypad lock holding a twenty digit code that changed biweekly and was known by only his most trusted officers, lay hidden the real depth of their efforts. 

Barracks, infirmaries, motor pools, and even a launch facility nestled in the mouth of a waterfall, housing more than three thousand soldiers at any time with enough food and supplies to last for years in a siege. Too deep to crack with orbital bombardment and too well ventilated to force suffocation. If they were ever uncovered, it would be a long bloody campaign to root him from his operations here on this world. And even so he had more than a dozen plans to ensure his survival.

Yet none of his strategies had accounted for this.

Bloodmaw grunted to himself, scratching his scaled chin with an idle claw as he mused on this most unexpected of developments. He could not have predicted for an alien warship to fall on his head. But this was not altogether a bad thing. What most considered being calamity, he had learned to take as prospective opportunity.

The reptilian brought his attention back to the strategic display, shifting aside his concerns and dreams of vengeance. He continued to study the reports streaming into his station, reading the information packets sent by his officers and reviewing the footage sent to him in real time from various squad-linked tactical networks. His eyes, trained and honed by a thousand battlefields, sifted naturally through the chaos of rushed reports and the unreliable nature of soldier-portable recording devices, gathering and assorting the surge of information into viable intelligence. 

He looked back to the initial scout reports as well, those formed after they had made contact with a roving patrol of the enemy not far from their crash site, and factored it into the plan steadily taking shape in his mind. First contact had been quite brief and no less informative. These creatures had proven to be incredibly hostile, engaging his recon units without hesitation or regard to the gravity of the situation. But that was almost expected. Bloodmaw had long grown used to unwarranted enmity.

He was more concerned with interpreting what little information he was able to gather so that he might formulate the appropriate plan to handle this situation. As it was, this was proving to be an issue even more complicated than his first predictions had projected. These… _things_, were proving to be equitably troublesome. Initial intelligence indicated a strict hierarchy amongst the enemy that was discernable despite the scarcity of information. It appeared that height was directly correlative to both command and tenacity in battle. These larger creatures seemed more shepherds than combat leaders, guiding their subordinates in a way that reflected their role as something akin to fodder, or a shield of flesh, though he was somewhat repulsed with the idea he could not deny its affect thus far.

To further complicate, enemy command elements possessed some form of personal shielding technology, an application of a ship mounted system that neither The Remnant nor The Federation had been able to produce in a portable capacity. Even more alarming was the realization that their weaponry utilized some form of plasmic energy that nullified modern armors entirely.

He had been quick to realize that in a one-to-one engagement they were technologically disadvantaged and from what video records could show, engaging the larger creatures in hand-to-hand was outright catastrophic. Thus far in the opening hours of this battle it was owed solely to their poor utilization of infantry tactics that he had been able to contend with these aliens.

With a thought he withdrew his preoccupied hand and swept it across the display, pushing up the forward skirmish elements of an armored division. Though lightly armored to degree that enemy handhelds could penetrate their plating, G-diffusion drives gave them the ability to hover over rough terrain, allowing the column to traverse the nearby hilltop and bring their anti-infantry cannons and rocket systems to bear on the enemy fortifications.

The jungle topography played to their advantage well. His soldiers had been training in the environment for months, running exercises and drills in the very same trees and river valley low lands inhabited by their adversaries.

Tapping another icon, he traced a path into the northeast, knowing that the wireless uplink would relay his instructions to the unit of sharpshooters in the form of a waypoint atop the nearby ridge. They had standing orders to single out the largest aliens. Cut the head of the snake and the body would wither.

After all, the age old adage was universal, even for aliens.

Bloodmaw watched as his orders were carried out on the display, various unit icons maneuvering across the holo-map in real time. He studied the deployment of his frontline, at the ever updating list of wounded and dead as it was depicted on the table, gauging the cost-return ratio with calm prudence.

And upon conclusion of his analyses, nodded to himself, returning a claw to the incessant itch under his chin.

The local humidity played hell with his scales.

The enemy was numerous and powerful, but they would eventually be defeated, by attrition if nothing else. Here, at the heart of his operations, he had the numerical advantage. And no matter how many lives it took he would have this unforeseen prize. These aliens and their technology just might be what the Remnant needed to finally pay the Federation back tenfold for their transgressions against his people. This could be the edge he needed to turn this delayed defeat into sudden victory.

Even so, he would have to work quickly. The Federation garrison on Fortuna, while minimal in size after its reduction to pre-war figures, was still more than capable of sending transmissions on the fed network. Federation satellite and senor technology was more advanced then what the Remnant was capable of replicating with their limitations, and Bloodmaw was confident that they were already aware that _something_ was happening. This ship had to come from somewhere after all, and the feds must have at least detected it entering the local sector, not the least its rapid descent into Fortuna’s atmosphere.

He fully expected them to send an investigative task force, one he could not counter with the current resources at his disposal. Bloodmaw, planning for the potentiality of being discovered, had already drafted the possibilities in a similar scenario. By such estimates, he figured to have hours, maybe a day at most before the first elements of this force would start to trickle in from local patrol fleets and other nearby garrison forces.

In any other position he would not have had the chance to even prepare his troops before the feds swooped in. Ships had to be marshaled, resources reallocated, and diversions put into place to shift the attention of the ponderous beast that was The Federation military.

It was sheer dumb luck that the alien starship had crash landed directly atop their complex, thereby negating such extensive measures. And Bloodmaw was not going to let this potential windfall slip from his scaled grasp. They would crush these creatures swiftly and decisively, steal whatever technology that wasn’t nailed down, and ensure that the Federation would find nothing but ashes.

To do that, more extreme methods had to be applied. The alien defensive line was remarkably resilient, and had thus far repelled even the most tenacious of assaults. Hundreds of his soldiers had already been killed trying to create a breach in their defense that might be exploited. There were six mechanized infantry companies behind the tree line, waiting for the opportunity to plunge a dagger directly in the heart of their emplacements.

But that even that was not enough.

Bloodmaw took in a deep draft of air, and hissed through his teeth.

“_Colonel Arkwright._” He uttered with a snap of his jaws, turning his enormous snout to the far more diminutive simian officer that had been waiting patiently, at a slight distance to his left side. His tongue flicked out to scent the air, accompanied by the usual amusement he felt at sensing the mammal’s fear. Bloodmaw retracted the sensory organ slowly, trailing the thin, bifurcated slip of muscle across his teeth as he studied the ape’s tightened jugular, contemplating for the briefest of moments, what it must taste like.

“S… Sir?”

And like always, it was the fearful statement of his subordinate that took him from his daydream, the recognition of the creature’s sentience forcing primal instinct back into the depths of his subconscious. Bloodmaw sighed long-sufferingly, the sound coming out in a way that resembled a busted pipe or more acutely, the dissonance of a leisurely unspooling engine.

“_What is the status… of the infiltration units?_” The general made an effort to speak slow and deliberate, marshaling his wandering train of thought, and directing it carefully back to its proper station. Now of all times, he could not afford to cater to his lesser self. He would not prove those bastards back at central command that they were right in their discriminations. Reptilian species _were_ suitable in command positions. The ponderous, taciturn thoughts of a reptile were _not _biological limitations. They were _more_ than just their baser instincts.

With this... opportunity, he would prove all that to them and more, much more.

“Progress is… optimal, Sir.” The simian replied hesitantly, swallowing audibly in the tense silence of the operations room. Around them, spread out in small clusters or seated at consoles, the rest of his command staff diverted a portion of their attention to the dialogue between their leaders. Most of the officers here had been working under the general for many years, and while there was a great deal of respect for his efforts and success against the Federation, fear was an even more familiar emotion.

Bloodmaw’s gaze was piercing, and the ape wilted like a sun parched weed under his impassive observation. In turn, the reptilian native of Venom regarded the information his visual receptors were sending to him. He could _see _the rush of blood surging under his aide’s skin, discern the _heat _of his body as fear forced his heart to pump faster and harder.

And his pits could almost _hear _the fluids thundering through the colonel’s veins.

The general blinked hard.

“_Not good… enough._” Bloodmaw admonished, his lethargic drawl carrying a sinister undertone that most in the room were intimately familiar with. The reptilian scratched at a tooth with a claw, rooting for any lingering morsel of his last meal.

“Of course Sir, I’ll inform them to work faster, Sir.” The simian sputtered fearfully, his eyes reflecting the utter panic that flowed under his skin so… deliciously. 

“_See that you do._” Bloodmaw warned, his thoughts finally reigned back to focus on the prominence of his current campaign, the giant crocodilian shifting his gaze back to the tactical map, and the fierce battle being waged. “_We do not possess time for dawdling._”

_“We will have victory this day, Colonel Arkwright. Be it at your hand… or mine.” _

The simian nodded fiercely, all but bowing to the General as he retreated to the supposed safety of distance. “By your will, General, it shall be done.”

He was not ordered so much as dismissed, by the wave of an immense, paw-like hand, and shirked away quickly to carry out his orders.

“_Nothing will stand in our way._”

Bloodmaw lowered a hand over the holo-image of the alien warship, and clenched a fist around his prize.

“_I will have… my vengeance_.”


End file.
